Fifty Shades of Perception
by DuncanIdaho2014
Summary: Ana Steele has a secret: she can read minds. Just being near let's her hear your thoughts. Touching you shows her your whole life. Her power has made her isolated, cautious, cynical. So however will Christian Grey break down her walls? A story of patience, learning, misunderstanding, and true love... and mind-blowing sex. That just goes without saying.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, my freaky darlings! This started out as just some random thought that popped into my head, but I ran with it, and now I have a whole novel just waiting to burst out. In which Ana, to blur the fandoms even more, has the abilities of both Edward and Aro, and how they would affect her life and, of course, her relationship with Christian. Any and all feedback is deeply appreciated.**

 **Now, let's get on with the show!**

 **Disclaimer: All characters are the intellectual property of E.L. James.**

 **P.S. To my One Piece fans, I'm not dead. It's just that NGP is being a brat. I keep rewriting and blocking and then rewriting and I just can't get it right. When I finally wrestle chapter 9 into submission, you'll be the first to know.**

 **P.P.S. Yeah, I read the books. As with Naruto, there's some great material that was poorly utilized by its own creator. So it's up to people like us to make the best of what they gave us.**

* * *

 **APOV**

I regard myself in the mirror with scrutiny. My hair, as disagreeable as usual, has been beaten into some semblance of order by Katherine Kavanagh's industrial strength hair straightener and then tied back into an unassuming tail. My pale skin is free of make-up, my ears unadorned with jewelry. Watery, overlarge blue eyes look back at me as I nod. I look utterly uninteresting, no part of my appearance likely to draw attention. I am just another face in the crowd.

That's all I ask out of life sometimes.

Under normal circumstances, I would avoid dense population centers like the plague. However, Kate has come down with actual plague (actually just a simple flu, but you'd think she was dying by her whining). This has rendered her unable to attend the interview she so painstakingly arranged with one Christian Trevelyan-Grey, self-made billionaire and the man conferring the degrees for the WSU Vancouver Class of 2011. He's a BIG DEAL, triple underline, and this interview is to be the front page news of the graduation issue of the school newspaper. It's scheduled for today, and no one else on the paper is free. So, with Kate confined to bed rest and fluids, and as her roommate and unofficially adopted sister, I am the prime candidate to replace her.

Only for Kate would I waste a tank and a half of gas commuting to a city of over half a million people.

She's shambled to the living room couch, a mountain of crumpled tissues around her. Even leaking mucus, she looks more like a cheerleader than an editor.

"Ana, I'm so sorry," she starts, her voice raspy and pathetic. Any lingering resentment I have dies in my chest. Kate is one of the brightest people I've ever met. She's bubbly and optimistic without being naïve. To see her in any kind of pain feels wrong somehow, like if Barbie were an addict and living in a trailer park instead of married to Ken in their mansion.

"Shush, now," I murmur, brushing her hair out of her face and ignoring the customary mental buzz. "You've been trying to get this interview since the start of fall semester, someone should make sure that work doesn't go to waste. I've got your questions and the recorder in my bag. Here's some NyQuil, go back to bed. There's lemon orzo on the stove for later, just the way you like it."

She sighs in relief. "You're my lifesaver, Ana. I don't know how I'll ever repay you."

I smile and turn to grab my bag. As I pull on my gloves, I hear her again, though her lips aren't moving. _She takes such good care of me. If I ever find a guy like that, I'll marry him on the spot. Though if he has her fashion sense, that might be a deal breaker. Turtleneck and floor-length skirt, all black? Sheesh, it's like an undertaker and a librarian had a really, really dull baby. No wonder she still has her v-card. Well, other than the obvious. Mark my words, I'll get that story out of her one day if it kills me._

I try not to grin and give her a final wave before I'm out the door.

I try to tune out the buzz of thoughts as I make my way out the little complex of duplex apartments, but there's no ear buds for this kind of hearing. Mrs. Peterman is in remission. Maybe I'll bake her cookies and leave them at her door. The Hoight's are arguing again. She thinks he's having an affair. He's not, he's just working a second job to pay off his gambling debts. Mitch Tyler is masturbating to a video of a woman and a Great Dane. I suppress the urge to vomit as I hurry past his door. To each their own, but some stuff is just _wrong_.

I slide into Kate's Mercedes, offered in lieu of the once-again convalescing Wanda. I turn the key, feeling the engine purr and the air become cool and fragrant thanks to Kate's clip-on air freshener. I stay in park though, leaning back my head and taking a moment to breathe.

Not for the first time, I wish I'd been born normal.

For as long as I can remember, I've been able to hear thoughts. I didn't think it was special; I thought everyone could. People have a mouth-voice and a head-voice. That seemed as obvious to me as the sky being blue. If people never seemed to act on it, then that was grown-up craziness like kissing or drinking smelly grape juice. My mom and stepdad worried when I was little how I never seemed to ask for stuff. When I tried to explain that I _did_ say it, they just didn't hear it, they would just sigh and remind me to really ask the next time. That revolving door lasted until I was six.

My mom had taken me to the girl next door's house to do our homework together. We'd finished and been doodling when her dad came out and told her mom that he had to go back to the office. I'd spoken up, asking why he said that when he was really going to see some lady named Precious. Next thing I know plates were flying through the air and my mother was dragging me out the door. I would later learn that my question led to a bitter divorce and the girl moving away. It was my first lesson in how dangerous my gift could be.

Mom sat me down and kept asking me how I knew about 'that woman'. I kept saying I heard him say it, she kept asking how, and I kept answering "cuz he said it". It wasn't until Ray got home and heard that we made any progress. Eyebrows pinched, he'd hesitantly asked me what he was saying right then. When I answered with the line-up of the Mariners, that's when they finally got it.

I'll never forget their faces. Ray's eyes wide with wonder, my mom covering her mouth with her hand in horror. That was a good indication for their general attitudes towards my 'gift', too. My mom panicked, wanting to call every doctor in the state to see if there was a way to 'fix' me. Ray shut her down, saying this had to stay secret. He was ex-military, he'd seen some things. He knew there were those that would want to use me if they ever found me. And I just sat there, staring, a sinking feeling in my tummy as I realized that I was different.

That was the first day I wished I was normal.

Throughout elementary school, I learned to keep my mouth shut. I didn't even raise my hand to answer questions in class for fear I'd let slip something I wasn't supposed to know. My cautious behavior made me the odd one out, a loner. I knew everyone's secrets, and I found out the hard way I couldn't use them. I couldn't tell crushes they liked each other, I couldn't talk to the boy about his dad hitting him, I couldn't even tell the police how the custodian was the one that stole the computers from the lab. Every time I tried, it led to disaster.

Over and over Ray tried to explain to me that I had to keep a low-profile. But I couldn't just stand by. What was the point of being psychic if I couldn't do anything with it? My mom would always just give me a look and then pretend nothing was wrong.

I tried to get sneakier, finding ways to release or use information that I had no ordinary way of knowing. It was a slow learning curve, and most days I took Ray's advice and tried to just let things go.

It wasn't until puberty that the real problems started.

For a few weeks, my 'hearing' started to go haywire. For hours at a time, it would just go away, leaving me with an eerie silence that was too strange for me to really appreciate at the time. Then it would come slamming back with a vengeance, turning everyone within about 50 yards of me into a rock concert of blaring noise. I kept my mouth shut, though; it wasn't like Ray or my mom could fix it, and I was forbidden from discussing it with anyone else.

It all cumulated a week after my 13th birthday, when I'd awoken to a blinding headache. It was truly terrible, to the point where I couldn't even stand. I'd lain there moaning, until Ray came in to check up on me. In the moment before he laid his hand on my forehead, I'd been happy that I could hear him just fine.

Then his bare skin touched mine.

Up until that point, my telepathy had been like a radio. I simply picked up what other people were broadcasting. The more I focused and the more familiar I was with someone, the easier I could 'tune in' to their specific 'frequency'. And, most importantly, I'd only ever picked up what was going through a person's head at that point in time. Stream of consciousness only.

Ray touching me was like plugging a cable into a computer. There was a rushing sensation and then suddenly I saw _everything_.

I saw him roughhousing with his two brothers on Thanksgiving Day, 1974. I saw him go all the way with Denise Marsh at his prom. I saw him hugging his father and crying mother before leaving for boot camp. I saw him say 'I do' to my mom with me in a stroller. Every thought, every feeling, every memory his whole life through right up to walking into my room and worrying I had a fever.

Looking back, I might have overreacted. Then again, what's the standard response to having another person's entire life shoved into your skull? Basically, I had a total breakdown. I'd shoved Ray out of my room screaming like a banshee. Then I'd locked myself in my closet for hours and dissolved into hysterics. I felt totally disconnected from my body, floating in a turbulent sea of emotions and ideas that _weren't mine_. I almost chewed my lip off, constantly biting it to try and ground me whenever I started to feel more like Raymond than Anastasia. For a while there, I feared he'd win. It was totally overwhelming; in the blink of an eye, barely a quarter of my mind was that of a teenage girl. 36 years tried to drown my measly 13.

It was the most scared I'd ever been in my life.

When I came out of the closet, I was a different person. Ana had come out on top, firmly planted in the driver's seat once again, but she was now at the helm of so much more. A veteran's strength, a husband and father's love, a cop's weariness. They weren't my own, except now they were. I'd go on to pick up more, all of it tenuously held together by the central link of 'me'.

Some nights, when I can't sleep, I mourn for the girl who would never have her own chance to grow.

I emerged to find my mom and dad fighting. She wanted to call the freaking cops on me, he wanting to hear my side first. When they saw me, Ray rushed right at me with a hug. I braced for another onslaught, but I got a trickle instead of a flood. Apparently, my first time touching someone involved a full 'download', but everything after was just an 'update'. I explained the new expansion to my weirdness. Ray just nodded and said we'd learn to adapt. Mom just shook her head and turned away.

Wasn't that just the cherry on top of a craptastic day? The same day I learn physical contact equals a life-changing seizure, I realize my mom is too afraid of me to love me.

Suffice to say we don't have the warmest relationship today.

After that day, I became a true loner. I covered all the skin I could, which got me the reputation of a bible-thumping prude. I actually appreciated the scorn, as weird as that sounds; it made it easier to avoid people. I learned and experimented with social cues, concocting the perfect mask to keep people at a distance.

Other than Ray, I've only touched four people, two of them by accident: a little girl named Alice, in a park. Yamada Toshiro, a survivor of the Nagasaki nuclear explosion, when he brushed past me in a supermarket. And my two best friends, Kate and Adrian. I like to think that my physical isolation doesn't affect me too much. Still, I never knew how comforting something as simple as a handshake could be until the only people I could so much as poke could be counted on one hand.

It should come as no surprise that my favorite X-Man is Rogue.

I shake my head, clearing my head of musings. I have to get to Seattle by two, and rain had weird effects on traffic. I maneuver the CLK out of its spot and hit the road.

The trip to the Emerald City was short and sweet, all things considered. I will admit my 'unassuming wallflower' persona vanishes completely whenever I get behind a wheel. What with a built-in radar detector and idiot scanner, I have a higher-than-average contempt for the rules of the road. To use Kate's words, I "drive like goddamn Danica Patrick on her day off." Maybe that's why my antique Volkswagen bug is all but worn into scrap these days.

The interview is in Mr. Grey's personal office, located at the summit of his headquarters building Grey House, an imposing if understated edifice of steel and glass jutting 20 stories into the air. I ask the attendant at the building's garage if they have spots for people with appointments, and he pointed me to a marked section right by the elevators. Thank God for small mercies. Now I won't have to drop half a month's rent and hike in from Olympia.

I try to ignore the mild headache from being near so many people. One of the reasons I go to WSU Vancouver is because it's so small, relatively speaking. Less people means less thoughts battering at my brain. Kate has plans to move to Seattle after graduation, and I have hesitantly agreed, on the condition we look for a small neighborhood. My personal pain doesn't beat the job opportunities or the simple fact that if I wasn't there to look after her, Kate would burn out within a month.

The lobby is somehow both bright and muted, sunlight streaming through the steel-and-glass windows to almost glow off the white sandstone that dominates. I maneuver around all the people moving with purpose from point A to point B, minds focused on the latest task to ensure Grey Enterprise Holdings, Inc. is the top dog of the world of mergers and acquisitions. I get to the reception desk, where I am assessed by a girl named Jacqueline.

"Mr. Grey's 2:00. Anastasia Steele. Katherine Kavanagh is indisposed and sends her apologies."

"One moment, Ms. Steele," she purrs. I suppress the need to arch a brow as she literally spends more time comparing our outfits than looking at the computer. She looks like the poster girl for the working woman: blonde hair perfectly coiffed, dressed in a charcoal gray suit and silk dress shirt that cost more than my entire wardrobe. Compared to my shapeless trench coat and "undertaker-librarian" ensemble, I look like an emo pauper. I marvel sometimes at how much other women focus on their wardrobe. Even before I started to intentionally sabotage my appearance, I never got the fuss over fashion. One more way I'm a freak, I suppose.

"Miss Kavanagh is expected. Please sign in here, Miss Steele. You'll want the elevator on the far right." She hands me a visitor pass and watches me leave with an amused smirk. _Mr. Grey is going to eat her alive_ is her last thought on me.

I walk past two security guards that wouldn't look out of place in the White House. I get that Grey makes more money in a year than some countries, but does he really need armed pros in the freaking lobby? Then again, a man doesn't secure that kind of success by taking chances. The elevator ride is fast enough that I'm glad Kate didn't talk me into heels.

I emerge into a lobby almost identical to the one I just left, right down to the expensively dressed blonde behind the desk. She jumps to her feet and points to some white leather chairs. She refers to me as "Miss Steele". Efficient of Jacqueline. I offer the new girl, Olivia, a smile. She's skittish underneath the poised exterior. She's only worked here a week and she's still nervous. As I glance at the vista of Seattle visible from a nearby meeting room, I sympathize. This whole place seems designed to intimidate.

I settle down and look through my bag, making sure everything is as I left it. I take a breath and dive into the 'Kate' portion of my mind. If she can't make it, then I'm going to make sure I do this just as she would. I review the biography she'd compiled on this guy: 28 next month, dropped out of Harvard his senior year, almost antisocial in his lack of personal interactions. I glance at the monochrome décor, surprised. If I didn't know better, I'd expect a guy in his forties showing off to his other business chums.

Yet another blonde model enters from behind a large door. I'm sensing a theme here. Grey must have a thing for blondes. Or perhaps the opposite, so there's no way he'd be tempted to dip his pen in the company ink. I look at the clinical interior again and conclude it must be the latter.

"Miss Steele?" the new girl asks as I stand up to face her.

"Yes," I murmur, not wanting to waste my breath with all the talking I'll have to cram in the next fifteen minutes.

"Mr. Grey will see you in five minutes. May I take your coat?"

"No, thanks," I refuse. I might be being dramatic, but the coldness of my surroundings is starting to physically affect me. I want every layer of protection I can when I face the man that crafted the whole thing.

"Have you been offered any refreshment?"

I hear Olivia panic and scold herself. "No, but I don't want anything. No harm done."

The poor girl sends me a grateful grin. Damn, just how cutthroat is the business world? The new girl, whom I pick up is Andrea, sends a stern look at Olivia before nodding goodbye and returning to her desk. I watch the two work for a bit, and it's clear that Andrea is the more experienced. Secretarial duties aren't much of a spectator sport, so I shift my focus to the office I shall soon enter. I pick up on two voices, one jovial and lighthearted, the other tired and petulant. With my luck, Grey will be the cranky one.

Sure enough, the happy voice comes near and it's a tall African American that exits. I raise a brow when his thoughts on training make something in my head click and I recognize him. Claude Bastille. Won the gold in kickboxing in Athens. My respect for Grey goes up a few points. Apparently the rich boy isn't afraid of hard work.

Bastille smiles at me. _Cute little thing. Hope Grey doesn't scare her._ I hide my frown. I'm a perfectly average height. Okay, not for the USA, but still! He bids goodbye to the girls behind the desk as he catches the elevator.

"Do go in, Miss Steele," Andrea says to me.

I stand up and stride with purpose to the half-open door. _Think like Kate_ I order myself. _Confidant, fearless, probing. This guy has a story and you're going to get every last detail._ I nod to myself and cross the threshold into the belly of the beast.

And I trip on the freaking door frame.

Life hates me.

* * *

 **CPOV**

I scowl at the skyline. The only reason I agreed to this stupid interview is because Miss Kavanagh's father is a major telecoms magnate and I thought I could milk a favor out of this. And instead she can't show and sent some nobody in her place. Since I also had my ass kicked by fucking Bastille this morning, I am definitely in a bad mood. But so what? I'm the fucking master of the universe. I can sulk if I want to.

Damn, I need to get laid. I should meet up with Elena to see about a new sub. Hopefully she won't try and suggest herself again. I'm grateful to her for teaching me control, but the thought of her body makes me gag now that I've enjoyed much fresher fruits.

A commotion at the door draws my focus. A black mass seems to trip into my office, only to catch itself in a textbook push-up position. I raise a brow. My usual annoyance at such clumsiness is tempered by how impressed I am by her recovery. Most of the women I meet are dainty things, soft and ephemeral. This kind of strength and handling is a refreshing change.

I walk forward to offer her a hand up, only to get a hand held up in the universal 'stop' as she rises smoothly to her feet by herself. My admiration swiftly turns to annoyance. I was only trying to be a gentleman. Must be one of those super-independent feminazi types.

My thoughts freeze in their tracks as I look into the most amazing eyes I've ever seen.

They're so blue, like a robin's egg, or a winter sky. They're intense but unfocused, the way Taylor's get when he's paying attention to nothing and everything at once. For a second I feel like she can see right through me. I feel vulnerable, exposed, and I hate it. I jerk my eyes away from hers to look at the rest of her. She has a sweet face, like a doll's, and her cheeks are touched with the barest pink, like a rose. I wonder if all her skin is as flawless, and I picture how it would look warmed by a cane.

Her face suddenly closes up, almost as if she could hear that. I take a moment to chastise myself for the errant thought. This girl is far too young for me. She doesn't look old enough to drink. I wait for the usual 'gaga' expression I get whenever women meet me, but she doesn't so much as blink. Her eyes flick up and down my form with detached interest, homing back in on my eyes with that damn piercing stare.

"Miss Kavanagh? Are you okay? Do you need a seat?" I ask. I know she's not Kavanagh, but I want to throw her off, see her flustered. I extend my hand for her to shake, but she ignores it to actually _bow_ at me. I try to keep my brow from reaching my hair. She doesn't look Asian. In fact, looking her over, she seems exactly my type. Pale, petite, and most definitely a brunette. Her mahogany locks reach halfway down her back, poorly bound by a hair tie.

"Miss Kavanagh is unavailable, Mr. Grey, as I'm sure Andrea told you. I will be interviewing you in her place."

I feel my hackles raise. She's staring me down, not looking the least bit cowed, calling me out on my little gambit. For a guy who gets his rocks off dominating women, this kind of defiance is exactly the kind of thing I can't stand.

"And you are?" I ask coolly, falling back on the manners my mother so painstakingly taught me.

"Anastasia Steele. I am Miss Kavanagh's roommate and I have her complete trust that I can handle this."

The words aren't boastful. More like she's trying to make it clear she has every right to be here. I glance at her clothes and think she needs all the assurance she can get. She's dressed hideously. All black, all shapeless, from her neck to her ankles. I note she even has on gloves.

"I see. Would you like to sit?" I ask, waving her at my couch.

She ignores me to look around my office. Her face doesn't betray any emotion, let alone the awe that I aim for and usually get. Her gaze settles on my paintings. In a better mood, I might explain them, but that ship sailed when she dared to talk back to me.

So I'm very surprised when she says "Trouton's 'Looking at the Overlooked', right? Shame you don't have room for all 300 frames. I love how she makes you think about things we all see but never really look at."

I'm struck dumb. Ms. Steele is very bright. The way the paintings make the ordinary extraordinary is what I like about them. "I agree," I mutter, reassessing her. She might be frustratingly immune to my usual power plays, but I'd give credit where credit is due.

She finally settles into a seat and I take one opposite her. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a sheet of paper and digital recorder. I thought those were already in museums. I watch her as she sets up her space. There's a fluidity to her movements, a surety of purpose, like she knows exactly how her body works and how to make it obey her wishes. Combined with her quick reflexes at the door, I guess that she takes some kind of martial art.

A bit pointless, if you ask me. She's tiny. She couldn't be 120 pounds soaking wet. I could bend her over my whipping post no problem. I shift to hide my reaction to that thought.

Her eyes shoot up to meet mine. Under a mask of patience, I think I see a flicker of annoyance. Am I being obvious or something? Normally I'm as unreadable as a statue. She bites her lip, and my attention is stolen. God, that mouth is perfect. Fuck me, but I can just see it wrapped around my cock.

That's definitely annoyance. What is she, psychic? "I will be recording this interview, Mr. Grey." It's not a question. I stifle my irritation at not even being asked. Then again, if she'd asked after already setting it up, I'd be mad at that. I'm an asshole like that, and I don't feel the least bit bad about that.

"Very well."

"I have some questions," she says as she glances at her paper, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear. I find myself wishing I could do it. Her hair looks so soft.

"I thought you might," I say dryly, hoping to see her squirm. She doesn't oblige me. Damn it. She hits 'start' on the recorder and launches right into it.

"You're very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?"

I try to hide my disappointment. Such a fucking dull question, completely unoriginal. I expected better. I give my standard response. "Business is all about people, Ms. Steele, and I'm very good at judging people. I know what makes them tick, what makes them flourish, what doesn't, what inspires them, and how to incentivize them. I employ an exceptional team, and I reward them well." Blah, blah, blah. I blather on a bit, but the simple fact is I'm a fucking genius at this. The only difference between an ailing company and a successful one is the people in charge, and I know exactly how to read them. I surround myself with good people and cut away the bad with ruthless zeal. It's easy as breathing for me.

Miss Steele looks unimpressed. "That's it? No method, no trick, no wise words to inspire the next generation of entrepreneurs? You're simply that good, and all this is just you assuming your rightful place?"

What the fuck? No one ever talked to me like that, challenging, as if I didn't deserve what I had. I worked my ass off to get where I am. I kept a close eye on everyone with me, second-guessing them when I had to, not letting emotion get in the way of logic, cutting away what didn't work like plucking weeds. "Not to put too fine a point on it, yes." Wanting to show off, I quote Harvey Firestone at her, the bit about development of people being the highest calling of leadership.

She raises a brow. "You have over forty thousand employees, Mr. Grey. You would have me believe that you use a personal touch with every single one of them? Surely you've learned that it's impossible to control every single aspect of a company this size?"

I clench my teeth. She's goading me, and it's pissing me off. "Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss Steele." And I'd like to exercise control of her right now. Fix that attitude of hers.

She shrugs, retreating on that front. "Well, I suppose immense power is acquired by assuring yourself you were born to control things," she says offhandedly.

I almost gape at her. She'd taken the words right out of my mouth. She doesn't really smirk, but I see one in her eyes. "Is that why you haven't taken GEH public? You don't want to surrender control to a board?"

"That's right," I answer, before I catch myself. Damn, I shouldn't have said that. A few of my deals are made by promising stock to the people in charge, expertly phrased by Ros and legal so that it doesn't bite me in the ass when I stay private. I narrow my eyes. Somehow, she shocked me on purpose, so she could sneak that out of me. Excellent journalism, that. Kavanagh was right to trust her.

"Do you have any interests outside of work?" she moves on, back to banal questions I now suspect are to get my guard down.

"I have varied interests, Miss Steele. Very varied." Images of her all over my playroom run through my head. Fuck, where is this coming from? The barely-there blush is back, and it's captivating.

"Everyone has to decompress some time. How does the billionaire enjoy leisure time, Mr. Grey? How do you chill out?"

"Chill out?" I ask incredulously. Such an odd phrase to come out of such a smart mouth. Besides, my free time is in short supply. But she's waiting for an answer, those eyes peering straight into whatever passes for my soul, and I find myself answering. "I sail, I fly, I indulge in various physical pursuits."

"Expensive hobbies. No surprise there."

The way she says it, like she's censuring me, drives me insane. I'm in the fucking 99th percentile of the 99th percentile. Am I supposed to be some average Joe? Still, I find myself searching for something 'ordinary' I do, something to throw in her face to show her wrong.

"I also play piano," I finally say, only to wish I hadn't. That's personal. Music is the only way I can cope with my damn insomnia. I don't want that fact available to anyone that picks up a fucking college newspaper.

Surprisingly, Miss Steele just nods and moves on. "You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?"

"I like to build things." I elaborate while puzzling at why she hadn't seized the obvious opening. "I also have a love of ships. What can I say?"

"What _can_ you say? Why do you love ships? Why invest money earned by logic and facts on something that has to do with your heart?"

I'm hardly going to tell her that I like ships because they deliver food around the planet. That wanders too close to my nightmare of a childhood. I deflect. "There are people who'd say I don't have a heart."

"Maybe you shouldn't spend time with those people, then." She says placidly. I have to stop my jaw from dropping. She's interviewing me, where does she get off giving me life advice? And the person who says that most often is Elena, and I can hardly stop spending time with her. She's the closest thing to a friend I have.

"You're a very private person. Why did you agree to this interview?"

"I'm a benefactor of the university. And, to be frank, Miss Kavanagh wouldn't take no for an answer. I admire that kind of tenacity." _But I'm glad it's you who showed up_. She's so damn fascinating. As infuriating as she is attractive.

The blush is back. Why? Because we were talking about Kavanagh? If she's a lesbian, that would explain why she didn't react to my looks. I feel inordinately displeased at the thought. She clears her throat and moves on. "You also invest in farming technologies. Why are you interested in this area?"

"We can't eat money, Miss Steele, and there are too many people on this planet that don't have enough to eat."

She narrows her eyes. "I suppose that's shrewd business. Think of all those starving children in the Sudan. If they could feed themselves, they wouldn't die, and then there'd be that many more consumers on the market."

What the fuck is she saying? I meant to come off as uninterested, but now she's painting me as some heartless bastard. I ignore the part of me that reminds the rest I was trying to give that very impression not five minutes ago. I'm fifty shades of fucked up, I'm allowed to be contradictory. "To say nothing of that much less suffering in the world as well," I counter, thinking fast.

She smiles then, fucking beams at me like I've impressed her. I forget how to breathe. My God, she's stunning. It's like the whole world just got brighter. Those dimples should come with a government health warning. I imagine that smile shining up at me as I fuck her mouth and I swear I almost jizz right then and there.

Just like that, the smile's gone and she's all business. "Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?" she rattles off by rote. I try to keep from pouting like a child. I want the smile back. It was easily the highlight of my day, hell, my whole month.

"Not as such. Maybe a guiding principle. Carnegie's. 'A man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his mind may take possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.' I'm very singular, driven. I like control… of myself and those around me." I'd love to control you, in fact, Miss Steele.

"Is that how you view the companies you buy? Things you're entitled to, things you deserve to possess?"

I frown. "Bottom line, yes," I say, but I'm hesitant. She'd phrased it wrong. Like I'm some spoiled rich kid grabbing up all the toys. It's more that I see a problem and I want to fix it, and then keep it as a trophy. The fact I make ludicrous amounts of money off it is just a nice bonus.

"Perhaps you should have adopted Julius' philosophy instead." She says musingly.

It takes me a moment to catch the vague reference. Ah, Caesar's famous words. Veni, vidi, vici. I came, I saw, I conquered. Come to think of it, that does suit me. I eye Miss Steele appreciatively. Brains and beauty. Based on her clothes (where'd they come from, the bargain bin at Walmart?) she doesn't have money, but two out of three ain't bad.

 _I could give you money, baby. Say the word and you'll be covered in diamonds_.

Shit, where the fucking hell did that come from? I'll admit she's easy on the eyes, oh fuck it, who am I kidding, she almost has me drooling. But there's no way she could ever be my sub, not with that teasing, challenging mouth and eyes that manage to look down on me when I'm on top of the fucking world.

I _really_ need to get laid. It's only been two months since Susannah, but that's clearly too long if I'm having thoughts like this. I mutter my agreement with her Caesar idea. That really was clever.

"You were adopted. How far do you think that's shaped the way you are?"

I scowl. What the fuck does that have to do with my second quarter? It's a ridiculous question anyway; if I'd stayed with the crack whore, I'd be dead by now. "I have no way of knowing," I blow her off.

She purses her lips. "Let me rephrase. How much of your success would you credit to your family's affluence and networking?"

 _That_ gets a reaction out of me. I pride myself on having earned all I have. I find myself ranting before I can stop myself. What the fuck is with this girl? It's like she pushes all my buttons and I don't even notice until it's too late. "None at all. I started this company in my bedroom with a loan. Two years later, I had over a million in the bank. I didn't take one cent from my parents, didn't use any of my father's contacts or advice, and I _paid_ for my brother's services when I needed them. Grey Enterprises is where it is because of me and my team, nothing more."

She nods, taking the brunt of my anger and not so much as blinking. She gets points for that. Only Ros, Taylor and Flynn can take one of my tantrums without flinching. "Do you spend much time with your family?" She asks.

"I have two loving parents, a brother, and a sister. I see them enough."

She cocks her head at that. She spends a full ten seconds regarding me with those x-ray eyes of hers. I refuse to look away, but she almost has me squirming. What strange power does this woman have? "You're a lonely person," she finally says.

What the fuck?!

"That's not a question," I bark. Shit, what the hell was that? I'm not lonely. I'm surrounded by people all the time.

"No, it's not." She doesn't seem fazed at all. I'm beginning to hate that calm look on that pretty face. The smile, the blush, that damn bitten lip, those make her disarming. This right here makes her seem like a robot.

She glances at her paper and she snorts. I blink. It's a very unladylike sound, but for some reason I find it adorable. Did Bastille hit my head too hard or something? "You're one of, if not the most eligible bachelors in Seattle. Why is it that you're never seen with a girlfriend? Or boyfriend?" she tacks on, her eyes glinting with mischief.

I have to resist the overpowering urge to bend her over my knee and spank the living shit out of her. How dare she? My own family doesn't have the nerve to ask me if I'm gay. Not that she really did. If it weren't for the quirk of her lips, I'd think she was just being politically correct. But she did, and she's amused by it. I should fuck her right here on this couch, that would answer her question.

I take a deep breath to gather myself. Control, Grey. "My personal life is just that, Miss Steele: personal. And I wonder at your audacity for implying what you have, Anastasia." Hmm, Anastasia. Such a nice name. I like the way it rolls off my tongue.

She shrugs, totally unabashed. Will nothing fluster this woman? It's really getting on my nerves. "Kate would have asked you if you were gay point blank. I think I handled it more tastefully. When a man that looks like you, with pockets as deep as yours, is never seen with a woman, people wonder Mr. Grey."

"They can keep on wondering. But for the record, Miss Steele, I'm not gay."

"Duly noted." She looks at her paper again, searching for the next question, but I'm tired of dealing with these damn effective questions. Time to turn the tables on her.

"What kind of news do you intend to write about?" I ask. I'm genuinely interested. If she's half as effective at weaseling info out of other people as she is with me, she could win the Pulitzer in five years.

She blinks at me, her eyes guileless, but the corner of her mouth is twitching. "I'm not a journalism major."

What. The. Fuck.

My jaw didn't drop. I know it didn't, because billionaire CEO's don't drop their jaws at college girls. How the hell did she pull all those responses out of me if she wasn't trained, not even interested in writing? But she's smiling again, and I find I don't really care. Well, I do, but I'm burning with curiosity instead of rage at getting played, which is quite out of character for me.

Then fucking Andrea opens the door. "Mr. Grey, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes."

"Cancel it. We're not finished here." I don't even think about it. I'm Christian fucking Grey. Whoever it is, they'll reschedule.

Andrea gapes at me, and I give her The Look, as it's called around the office. She gets the message quick. "Very well, Mr. Grey." She turns on her heel, leaving me with the now much more interesting Anastasia Steele.

"Don't trouble yourself on my account," she states, her smile replaced with a trace of a frown. What, did she time that so she'd have the last word?

I smirk. "I can hardly let you leave after that little surprise, Miss Steele. If you're not a journalism major, why are you here doing this interview?"

She takes a breath and seems to settle in to weather her own inquisition. "As I said, Miss Kavanagh is indisposed. I elected to take her place."

Something in the way she said it makes me suspect that it was more involuntary than she let on. But I'm too curious about what she _is_ studying. She's missed her calling, unless she's even better at what she actually cares about.

"What is your major then, Miss Steele?"

She seems to debate whether to answer. Technically, her time's used up. If she's not afraid to be rude, she could up and leave right now. But she relents. It occurs to me that she might be humoring me, but that idea doesn't frustrate me like it should.

"I'm a double major in Psychology and Humanities."

I arch a brow. And she had the time to come do this interview? "That explains a great deal." She's got some of the same know-how as Flynn. That explains how she knew how to get under my skin. I remember that humanities is a program WSU does that combines English with some other liberal art. "What's your second focus in Humanities?"

"Sociology." She grins, and it's not the same as her smile. It makes her seem mysterious, knowing, even more remote than her calm mask. I don't want that. I want her here, in the moment with me, not a thousand miles away. I don't know why, and I'll be sure to bring it up with Flynn, but all I care about right now is getting more of this bewitching creature. "You know _how_ people think, Mr. Grey. I want to know _why_."

I smile, finding her desire charming somehow. Her eyes flicker to my mouth. Huh. Not a lesbian than. Or hopefully at least bi. Hopefully, because I fully intend to have this woman. I'm not sure how that's going to work, since she's not likely to be a sub and that's all I know, but the details can work themselves out later.

"What are your plans after you graduate?" I ask.

"My plan is to graduate, period."

"We run an excellent internship program here." Fuck, I'm really breaking every rule here. I never, ever fuck the staff. Then she bites her lip again, and I find I don't care. Damn, but that's arousing.

"I'll keep that in mind, Mr. Grey," Like an afterthought, she adds "But I refuse to dye my hair to get the job."

What the fuck does that mean? I ask her that, minus the expletive. A gentleman does not mouth off to a lady.

She raises a brow. "Maybe it isn't you. But whoever does the hiring for interns seems fixated on statuesque blondes, and I'd hate to break the pattern."

Are they really all blonde? I hadn't noticed. I just glanced at the resumes HR sent me before offering final approval. She starts putting her things back in her bag. Shit, she's going to leave. I go through my schedule, and nothing outranks more time with Miss Steele.

"Would you like me to show you around?"

"No I wouldn't, in point of fact."

Huh. So this is what rejection feels like. I don't like it. This is actually the first time a woman I was interested in didn't respond to me. Oddly, her refusal makes me more determined.

She's up and headed for the door, clearly done with me. If I were a reasonable man, I'd take the hint. But I'm Christian Grey. I always get what I want. And I want every second I can get with this girl.

Inspiration strikes me and I get the door for her. "Just ensuring you make it through okay, Ms. Steele," I murmur.

She glares at me. Actually glares. Those piercing eyes become so intense I half expect laser beams to come out. I actually find myself gulping. "How considerate of you, Mr. Grey." Her voice is so cold it could freeze the Puget Sound solid.

I will _definitely_ talk to Flynn about why that turned me on.

Andrea and Olivia look up in shock when I follow Miss Steele out of the office. I ignore them, focused on trying to salvage my rapidly dwindling time with Miss Steele. She's already pushed the button for the elevator.

"It was a pleasure to meet you," I say, offering my hand again.

She eyes it and then looks at me like I was part of the furniture. "If you say so," she says before turning to face the elevator. It's as clear as a dismissal can get.

I'm actually starting to get kinda pissed. I'm trying to be nice, something I rarely do. She should appreciate the effort.

The door opens and she glides into it, turning on her heel to face me.

"Anastasia," I murmur, hoping to get one last word in.

"Christian." Damn. She beat me again. Now I'm stuck staring at a closed elevator, my own name ringing in my ears.

Fuck me. What the hell just happened?

"Andrea, get me Welch on the line," I snap, returning to normal. I need a background check. One way or another, I'm finding out more about Anastasia Steele.

* * *

 **APOV**

Well. That had been something.

I rush out of that damn building with as much composure as I can, only to lean back on one of the columns and look up into the grey, misting sky. The cool moisture calms me, washing away the stress of that very unsettling meeting.

Christian Grey was the most unnerving man I'd ever met. One minute I wanted to rip my clothes off, the next I wanted to knock his teeth out. And based on the lifestyle he's clearly into, the two responses aren't necessarily exclusive.

I sigh, mentally replaying the interview in my head. I think I managed to keep my cool, but only because I had Toshiro's discipline and Kate's single-minded focus. I'm a girl who can read minds, I've had more than my fair share of uncomfortable encounters with men. I try to pinpoint why Grey's dirty imaginings bothered me more than every other creep's. Maybe it was the fact that he flew past mentally undressing me to mentally tying me up. Maybe it was the surety of his thoughts, the subconscious guarantee that he could have me if he really wanted me.

 _Maybe it's the fact he's hot enough you'd let him do it._ My libido, poor malnourished thing that it is, chooses now of all times to speak up.

I acknowledge the truth of the thought before I push it aside. As Grey would say, it's only skin-deep.

No man that maladapted has any right to have that amount of power. His thoughts had felt _off_ , whirling from A to Z and back to Q. I'd heard people with bipolar disorder and ADHD, but it wasn't the same. It was more like he'd been smashed to pieces but hadn't fallen apart, held together by pure strength of will and prayers. Like the Colosseum: no concrete, but still standing under the sheer weight of its own mass.

Plus, he's a freaking sadist. Now, I've ran into a sub or two. I know that they genuinely want and enjoy the punishment, and that suits them perfectly for those that like to punish. But something about the whole institution just sticks in my craw.

I'll admit, I might be a bit biased because of my mom's third husband, Stephen Morton. I'd already hated the man for breaking up my mom and Ray, but on top of that he was an abusive sicko. He'd left his last three girlfriends in the hospital. He'd even given me a few looks.

I'd tried to warn my mom. But she wouldn't listen. As with everything when it came to me, she'd floated in a cloud of denial, clinging to the idea that we were just a normal family. And I was to keep my mouth shut about my new dad and listen to my mother, young lady, and say goodbye to Ray so we could move on to being a happy new family.

Yeah, right.

It took me handcuffing myself to the stairs and swallowing the key for my mom to accept that there was no way in hell I was leaving Ray. She'd just huffed at my dramatics and signed over custody to Ray the next day. Less than a year later, mom and Stephen divorced. He'd broke her damn leg, but she didn't press charges. I'd called her in the hospital, trying very hard to keep any hint of 'I told you so' out of my voice, hoping to reconcile.

She'd actually blamed me. Said I put thoughts in her head, made her see things where they weren't and that's what pissed Morton off and made him hurt her. I slammed the phone shut so hard I broke the plastic casing.

That was the day I realized blood and family aren't mutually inclusive. She might have brought me into this world, but Carla Wilks wasn't a mother. Now we exchange half-hearted chit-chat once or twice a year, but for all intents and purposes we're strangers. And though I recognize that part of the fault lies with her, I will always blame Stephen Morton and his fists for ruining what I had with my mother.

Which is why I had serious doubts I could ever be with a man that enjoyed beating women, even if the women actually liked it.

I feel my shoulders slump. Well, that precludes any kind of relationship, I suppose. No way am I taking on that much crazy with my already abused psyche, let alone for my first try. I guess this will be chalked up to one of those countless 'what-ifs' if I wasn't cursed the way I was.

Still, disturbing as his desires were, I still had a freaking billionaire all but panting after me. That was a nice little ego boost I'd carry with me for a while.

I race down Interstate 5, eager to get as much distance between Christian Grey and me as possible. I get honked at more than once, but I ignore it. I know what I'm doing.

I get back to Portland and retreat to our apartment for the sanctuary that it is. Kate is still on the couch, only this time she's surrounded by books instead of tissues. Finals are upon us, after all. She's in her pink bunny jammies, the ones she only wears when she's, quote, "run out of fucks to give." So, once or twice a month.

"That was fast, even for you," she says as she jumps up to hug me. I relax into the embrace, feeling the jittery tension that had filled me since I left go away. "Am I going to see the high speed chase on the news tonight?"

"Roads were pretty clear, that's all," I murmur. I hand over the recorder, and she clutches it like it's a Tiffany tennis bracelet.

"Thank you again so much for this. I'd have loved to do it myself, but you and your special brand of verbal dissection should be a close second. What's the verdict?" she asks.

I roll my eyes. It goes without saying I'm good at reading people, and Kate has asked for my 'insight' on plenty of other occasions.

"He's a mixed bag. He's intense, focused, old before his time, but at the same time he has a kind of erratic energy, like a kid on a sugar rush. He's very formal and courteous, but that covers up a hair-trigger temper. He knows what he wants and goes for it, and he doesn't care who gets in his way. Great businessman, not so great human being. I hope I never see him again."

Kate whistles. "Damn. Never seen you this worked up about anyone. Can't wait to hear the interview. I'll get right on transcribing this."

I nod, already going for my room. "Alright. I'm going to squeeze in a workout before I make my shift at Clayton's. You're welcome for the soup, by the way."

"Health nut!" she accuses me. "And if I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times, you can pay the rent with your cooking. I can't taste anything and I still had a foodgasm!"

I shoot her a smile before I close the door. I start breathing deep, reaching for that well of focus within me as I slip out of my stuffy clothes until I'm standing in just my underwear.

I warm up with some stretches, before I eye the pull-up bar affixed to my door. I gather myself, then jump up to catch myself. Once I'm sure of my grip, I carefully let go with my right hand and hold it behind my back. I fill my lungs with oxygen, then exhale as I slowly force my elbow to bend, all my bodyweight coming down on my left bicep. It rises to the challenge and I move up until my chin clears the bar. Then I slowly descend, strictly telling my body not to just flop down. Going down is as important as going up in this exercise.

From my dad, I had learned the secrets of army training, how Uncle Sam turned boys of all body types and fitness into men capable of enduring the trials of war. From Toshiro, I had learned jujitsu, passed down his family line from the time of the samurai, of honor and the mindset of combat. And from my own wanderings about town, I knew just how many wolves there are in the world among us sheep. And I was a prime target, being both short and a girl; I practically had 'helpless' tattooed on my forehead. It wasn't even about health to me, as Kate thought; I just wanted to be able to handle whatever obstacle life threw my way.

I manage fifteen with each arm. My veins feel like they're filled with molten lead, but I relish the burn. As Crossfit keeps telling my dad, 'pain is weakness leaving the body'. I cool down with a few gentle katas, trying to work the movements into my very bones. In a real fight, I won't have time to think all these grapples and hits through. It will be pure muscle memory, and I need be able to ace it without thinking. By the time I'm done, it's about time to leave. I hastily towel off the sweat and apply deodorant, cursing my bloated schedule for not having the time to shower. I wave at Kate, busy typing away, and make for my personal temple to the almighty dollar.

Clayton's is the biggest hardware store in town that isn't some corporate clone. I nod pleasantly at Mrs. Clayton before getting to work doing inventory in the back. I had no personal stake in house work, other than what I picked up from Ray on carpentry. I was here purely for the paycheck, and because you're less likely to touch an attendant in a store than a waitress.

I returned home when it was starting to get dark, exhausted but with thirty more bucks to my name. Kate is still typing away. Her illness has in no way affected her usual machine-gun fingers. That was one skill I hadn't absorbed when we touched. I guess her hands are just wired different.

"You should have switched majors when I bugged you, Ana. This is gold. You played him like a fiddle. How come you didn't take him up on the tour? He clearly wanted to spend time with you."

I ignore the traitorous spike in my heartbeat. "I was mentally exhausted, and he rubbed me the wrong way. I reiterate, I hope never to see him again."

Kate huffs. "Whatevs, Ana. I've got a great article shaping up here. Shame we don't have stills. Handsome son of a bitch isn't he?"

My mind flickers to Christian's thoughts when I brought up the adoption. He literally is the son of a bitch. Or rather a 'crack whore'. Might explain why he's so driven to succeed, to prove he's risen above his past. I refocus on Kate's question. "It's just a face, Kate."

Kate glares at me like I just broke one of the commandments. "I'm starting to wonder if you're asexual, Ana. He practically offered you a job, he was that interested, and you just blew him off. Come on, girl to girl, what did you think of him?"

I fight the urge to groan. Kate's inquisitiveness is one of the things I both love and hate about her. Right now I'm leaning towards the latter. I start to make a sandwich since she's hungry and hasn't noticed yet. "He's bad news. He's the textbook definition of emotionally unavailable. The reason he's never seen with a date is probably because he doesn't keep girls around that long, if you know what I mean."

Kate frowns. "That's a bit harsh, even for you. Are you sure you're not projecting or whatever you call it? He sounds genuinely taken with you."

I sigh. "It's my life, Kate. And I'll be better off without Christian Grey in it. Trust me." I hand her the plate. "BLT with avocado and chipotle mayo."

Kate smiles and gives me a 'what am I going to do with you' look. _If she wants to be a chaste hermit, that's her thing. Still, if Christian 'his Hotness' Grey doesn't get her juices flowing, I don't know what will._ "You're a goddess. Thanks for everything today, Ana."

I give her a smile and leave her to her thing. I manage to wrap up my _Tess of the d'Urbervilles_ essay by midnight. Damn my professor and her obsession with classic British Literature. We get it, a woman's life used to be a tug-of-war between her needs and her duties and she usually picks wrong and loses in the end. We've moved out of the Dark Ages, give it a rest already.

Maybe I'm cynical, but I don't believe in "click, meant to be, happily ever after." Any and all relationships take time, work, and devotion. To quote the Arabic proverb, 'love comes after marriage'. Granted, there has to be some basic chemistry or common interest, but love doesn't bloom like magic and coast through the trials of life like Teflon. The moment someone starts to think nothing can go wrong with their relationship is usually when it starts to. When and if it ever happens to me, I'll take that spark and nurture it into a flame and make sure it never burns out.

Sometimes I envy Kate and her loosey-goosey views on sexuality. She can have fun with no strings and just move along. When it's an investment for me to even hold someone's hand, I'm left with nothing _but_ a serious, committed relationship, and how many guys my age are looking for that?

Maybe Kate's fears will be realized and I'll end up some lonely old lady. But I don't mind. I'll just live vicariously. I'm better suited to it than most.

And this is what I get for sulking on a Monday night. I shake my head and make for bed. I slip out of all my cloth trappings and slip under my mother's quilt, a souvenir of happier, or at least simpler times.

That was the first night I dreamt of Christian Grey.

* * *

 **So? Whatcha think? Let me know in a review, please! And sorry about that last line. I just couldn't resist!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Second verse, better than the first. Let's see how this goes down. Steele vs. Grey, Rounds 2 and 3, back to back! LET'S GET READY TO RUMBLE!**

* * *

 **CPOV**

 **Anastasia Rose Steele**

 **DOB:**

Sept 10, 1989, Montesano, WA

 **Address:**

1114 SW Green Street, Apartment 7, Haven Heights, Vancouver, WA 98888

 **Mobile Number:**

360-959-4352

 **Social Security Number:**

987-65-4320

 **Banking Details:**

Wells Fargo Bank, Vancouver, WA 98888

Acct No: 309361: $683.16 balance

 **Occupation:**

Undergraduate Student WSU Vancouver College of Liberal Arts – Humanities Major (Sociology)

College of Arts and Sciences – Psychology Major

 **GPA:**

4.0

 **Prior Education:**

Montesano JR-SR High School

 **SAT/ACT Score**

2380/35

 **Employment:**

Clayton's Hardware Store, NW Vancouver Drive, Portland, OR (part-time)

 **Father:**

Franklin A. Lambert - DOB: Sept 1, 1969, Deceased Sept 11, 1989

 **Mother:**

Carla May Wilks Adams - DOB: July 18, 1970 **m** Frank Lambert - March 1, 1989, widowed Sept 11, 1989 **m** Raymond Steele - June 6, 1990, divorced July 12, 2006 **m** Stephen M. Morton – August 16, 2006, divorced January 31, 2007 **m** Robin (Bob) Adams – April 6, 2009

 **Political Affiliations:**

None Found

 **Religious Affiliations:**

None Found

 **Sexual Orientation:**

Not known

 **Relationships:**

None indicated

Saturday is usually just another day of the week for me. My business requires constant supervision, especially the way I run it, and weekends are for people with other things to do. But this particular one finds me sitting in a car in a suburban parking lot, staring at the door of a hardware store in Portland, the executive summary of the background check on one Anastasia Steele in my lap.

I haven't been able to get the damn woman out of my mind all week. During dull meetings, I replay our verbal game of chess, how she'd switch from admonishing to teasing to matter-of-fact to distant until I had no idea what was coming next. When I go for my morning run, I wonder what she was hiding under those clearance sale rags. She's even edged out my nightmares. My usual flashbacks have been replaced by chases through dark places, egged on by haunting blue eyes.

And I've beaten off to the idea of her smile, flushed with desire instead of approval. I haven't come like that since I was a teenager.

The thing that really gets me though, is that she said _no_. I'd offered to spend the whole afternoon personally escorting her, and she'd shot me down flat. That didn't happen to me. Girls had flocked to me my whole life. I'd never accepted their advances, but I started to take it for granted that I was a chick magnet. It had gotten ten times worse once I got rich. And my subs had come to me with a snap, eager and willing. So for a woman to turn me down was just… weird.

Maybe that was what drew me to her. The challenge. That smart mouth, that defiance, that complete refusal to bow before my whims. It was a total unknown for me. New. Exciting. She'd make a terrible sub, but somehow I like that. I like the idea of having to break her down, to mold her to my wishes, to tear that remote, uncaring look off her face and replace it with total focus and need for me. I want her to look up at me like I'm the beginning and the end of her whole world.

And that thought actually scares me. I mean, I fucking whip girls that remind me of my mother bloody and then fuck them unconscious. I know I'm sick. And I've bulldozed through all the sappy emotional bullshit that made business owners unreasonable without a scrap of pity. But that kind of dark urge to _destroy_ someone, a woman at that, makes me worry I'm an even bigger monster than I already think.

I was so troubled by the total mess that Miss Steele had reduced me to that I even brought her up with Flynn. And that's saying something. But that's what I bother paying him for I guess, even if his solution-based shit is total crap.

The appointment started like most others: I'd sat there sulking, wondering why I'd bothered to come, and he'd tapped away at solitaire on his tablet like he didn't care either way. There are weeks where this is how we spend the whole hour. I must be the easiest $400 he's ever made.

Finally I grit my teeth and made the first move. "I met someone."

He looked up then, not a hint of surprise or any other emotion showing. Do they teach psych students how to pull off a poker face? "Really? Is it a woman?"

I huffed. "Yes, it's a woman. If it was a man, we'd be having a whole other discussion right now."

He grinned then. "I imagine so. Tell me about this woman."

The words poured out of me like his words broke some kind of dam. "She's very intelligent, maybe smarter than me, I don't know. She's extremely self-contained, it's like pulling teeth to get any kind of reaction out of her. She's got these eyes that make me feel transparent, like there's nothing I can hide from her and it freaks me out a little, but they sparkle like jewels when she smiles. She's not on any sports teams that I know and she practically wore a burlap sack when we met but I'm sure she's trim and tight all over. And when she bites her lip, man, I don't know, it does something to me. There's probably so much more to her than that but I don't know because I couldn't read her at all and I didn't have a lot of time so I tried to get her to stay and she _blew me off!_ What the fuck?! No one blows me off. And normally I'd want to beat the shit out her to teach her a lesson in my playroom and I still want to a little but I actually _liked_ her standing up to me a bit and that goes against everything I know and… and…"

I trailed off. Flynn was staring at me like I just grew three heads and started glowing radioactive green. Then my brain restarted and I almost blushed. I had totally lost control. I hadn't done that since I was sixteen and had a bit of a relapse with Elena. Also, I probably just used more words than I had in the last six sessions. Anastasia Steele strikes again, and she wasn't even there.

Flynn eventually regained his composure. He put aside the tablet, which let me know I had his undivided attention. "You clearly have some very… strong feelings for her. Who is she? How did you meet her?"

"Anastasia Steele." I savored the way it felt to say her name. It was so smooth and musical it was practically foreplay. I remember pinching my nose then. Something was seriously wrong with me. "We met Monday. She came to interview me for WSU."

"And how did that go? I assume that's where most of your interaction came from."

I sighed. "I don't even know. It's like she hypnotized me or something. She'd ask some stupid question and I'd give her a stock answer, then she'd say or do something and all of a sudden I'd be spilling my guts. And the real kicker is that she isn't even a journalist. She's majoring in psychology, English, and sociology all at once. I told you she's smart. Got a damn near perfect score on the SAT."

"I won't ask how you know that," he smirked. I rolled my eyes. He was well aware of my utter disregard for people's privacy. "You mentioned that she blew you off. Explain, please."

"The interview ended. Actually, I cancelled a meeting so we'd keep talking and she still got up right away. I offered to show her around, and she said 'no' to my face. She wouldn't even shake my hand goodbye. And it wasn't like I pissed her off, at least I don't think. It was more like she wanted nothing to do with me. Do you know how strange that is for me?"

He had the balls to chuckle. "I personally think it's a good learning experience for you not to get your way for once. But I digress. Why bring her up to me?"

"She's all I can think about, John," I muttered. "I swear, I'm getting obsessed. She's just so fascinating, and I know almost nothing about her." I gave him a glare. "So, time to earn your keep. How do I deal with this?"

He folded his hands. "Let's start with the basics. Do you want to see her again?"

"No shit," I growled.

"And past that? What do you want in regards to her? What's the goal?"

I didn't bother to hide my groan when he brought up the 'g' word. Always trying to move forward, like my problems are a maze to navigate instead of a part of me I'll never get rid of. Still, I took a moment to think. I was a bit hesitant to admit all the different desires that ran through me at the thought of Miss Steele, but I've been seeing Flynn for going on two years. That's the longest I've ever stuck with one therapist. Besides, he's a shrink. Not judging me is in his job description. Otherwise he'd have called the cops on me after the first meeting.

"I want to fuck her, obviously," I finally said. "But I'm not sure she'd agree to sub for me. She's pretty young, I should have mentioned that, it might scare her off. And I can hardly be with her if she won't surrender control to me. And I _really_ want to control her." My mind filled with the fantasies that are out there even for me. Oh boy, do I want to control her. I swallowed, and admitted the rest. "But I also want to get to _know_ her. Like, be her boyfriend or some shit. And that's just impossible. I'm a sadist, I don't do relationships."

He shut his eyes and seemed to count to ten. I hid a smirk. Still getting riled up when I speak the simple truth. "First and foremost, Christian, you are _not_ a sadist. You are not _compelled_ to hurt people, and you don't really _enjoy_ their pain. You just keep trying to convince yourself that as part of a coping mechanism that isn't very good for you provided by a rather… dubious source."

I frowned at him. Elena is a touchy subject with us. He likes to toss around words like 'abuse', 'molestation' and 'pedophilia'. He just doesn't get it. It was completely consensual, and it was arguably the best thing that ever happened to me after getting adopted by Grace and Carrick. BDSM had made me the man I was today, had handed me the tools to take the world by storm.

"I can't do vanilla, Flynn. I'm just not cut out for it."

"That's what you keep telling yourself, and I'll keep trying to help you see it's not true for as long as you keep coming." He tilted his head and grinned knowingly at me. "But the second part of what you said, Christian, about you wanting to get to know her? That's exactly how 'vanilla' relationships start."

I resisted the urge to flip him off. "And how would I go about doing that?" I asked, letting him think I was playing along. Hell, all this could have been a moot point anyway. I still didn't know if Anastasia would consent to be in the same room as me, let alone being restrained.

He grinned at me so bright I almost felt guilty for leading him on. Anastasia's was brighter though, and that's all I cared about at that point. "Call her up. Invite her someplace. Arrange a chance encounter. Act like a regular human being. See where it goes from there."

Which bring me here, with an odd feeling in my stomach as I gather the courage to talk to a salesclerk. I feel like I've stepped into the Twilight Zone.

I take one last deep breath and get out of the car.

* * *

 **APOV**

May God damn Christian Trevelyan-Grey to the blackest pits of Hell. And damn his whore mother for having him, the john that knocked her up, and the good Doctor Trevelyan-Grey for being enough of a bleeding heart to take him in. The pox take his livestock and the tax collectors lead him into ruin. Blow up his fancy penthouse with him in it, set fire to the rubble, then blow up the ashes for good measure.

I am not in a very good mood right now.

Five nights. For the last five fucking nights, I've been besieged by dreams of Grey. The kind of dreams that leave my heart pumping and my sheets sticky. The kind of dreams I haven't had since I took down that Leonardo DiCaprio poster in my bedroom freshman year. The kind of dreams that are decidedly not conducive to putting the sexy bastard and our oddly charged encounter behind me.

I'd only been subjected to his dirty mind for twenty minutes, but I still had enough material to have a new perversion torturing me each night. A St. Andrew's cross, carabineers, spreaders, clamps, hell, even something with peacock feathers! All had made some sort of appearance in my subconscious burlesque. What really bothers me is that it wasn't always Christian using them on me… sometimes it was the other way around.

And that was just all kinds of confusing.

Now, despite what my wardrobe would lead people to believe, I'm no prude. Actually, I'm probably the most experienced virgin that ever walked this Earth. While I personally had never done so much as kiss, I had memories of both sides of the deed in full color and surround sound stored in my head. Kate wasn't exactly a nun. Toshiro had been very good at using his burn scars to score sympathy points. Ray had shown me details about my mother I could have happily gone to my grave never knowing. And I wasn't going to touch the kind of stuff Adrian did with a thirty-nine-and-a-half-foot pole.

Still, there was something just so… so _embarrassing_ about my Domme dreams. I mean, it's one thing when I wake up from being suspended in mid-air, my legs behind my head and a riding crop trailing up my slit. Christian had enjoyed that visual around the manufacturing question, and I'd picked it up along with everything else. It was his damn fault for putting it in my head. But him naked and kneeling before me, his tongue trailing up my foot as I hold the remote to a vibrating cock-ring… well, I had no one but myself to blame for that. I had no idea my id was such a freak, and the revelation had me afraid to look people in the eye.

And ready to bury the charismatic asshole alive in burning coals.

I cut off that train of thought and try to find some other form of anger management than homicidal ideation. That's just not healthy.

My week had been okay, my sleepless nights notwithstanding. I spent the days trying to memorize every section of the human brain and the disabilities pertaining when I wasn't trying to compare and contrast feminist novels of the 20th century before and after the Sexual Revolution. Kate continued to chip away at her article like Michelangelo crafting David out of a marble block. It's seriously good stuff. She's thinking of putting it in her portfolio, but she worried it wouldn't count since she hadn't done the interview. I assured her that if travel writers that never went to the countries they describe can win awards, she can get away using the transcription.

Carla called. Said she was sorry but she couldn't make my graduation; Bob had broken his toe and plane tickets could be so expensive and hopefully I understood. I hadn't even invited her, but I assure her I'm fine anyway. She hesitated before she hung up, and I ignored the knot in my throat as I waited for her to give up. It would be easier if I hated her. Hatred is the flipside of love, so I'd at least still have some sort of attachment to her. I'm just indifferent, which makes it worse whenever she tries to reach out. I feel guilty for her pain, but not guilty for keeping distant, and it just messes with my head. I remind myself that I'm better off without her.

Calling Ray is much easier. We exchange monosyllables for a few minutes and hang up satisfied that all is well with the other. I'm extra secure in our relationship, because I know exactly how much he loves me back. It warms my heart that he's just as assured when he doesn't have that kind of psychic confirmation. Gives me faith in humanity.

Friday had been a break from the humdrum. Jose had shown up, bearing champagne and the news that a local gallery would exhibit his photography next month. We'd both congratulated him, promised to show, he'd tried to get close to me and I'd dissuaded him as firmly as I could without hurting his feelings. Our usual routine.

My relationship with Jose would be simple if he didn't insist on needlessly complicating it. We'd met at orientation and partnered up to brave the daunting chaos of that first day on a college campus. He'd made me laugh, and as if to prove Disney's animatronic children right, it turned out his dad had served together with Ray. We'd established a nice bond, which he'd quickly tried to turn into more. I'd tried to nip it in the bud, explaining that I only saw him platonically. That lasted a couple months, until he realized that I turned down every guy that so much as flirted with me. Then he'd had the brilliant idea that since I rejected everyone, his own didn't really count, and he just had to prove he was different from the rest. He'd been making doe eyes at me ever since.

Which was uncomfortable for a variety of reasons. First off, I 'remembered' serving with his father, which made me feel almost paternal towards him, like he was a nephew who just happened to be my age. Second, his particular brand of flirting involved a lot of casual touch, which was a pain to keep trying to fend off. I liked him, don't get me wrong, but not enough to learn his every dirty secret. Then there's the fact that I'm already outnumbered on the male-female ratio of lives I've lived. I don't want to throw that even more out of balance. But perhaps most important is the fact that Jose just doesn't do it for me. To be fair, I don't know anything that does 'do it' for me, but the 'Latino soccer star' look Jose has going isn't it.

 _You know what does it for you: smoldering grey eyes and copper hair. Preferably seen between your thighs…_

I shut the door once again on my libido. Bitch must have led a coup or something. She's had much more free reign recently. Ever since Christian motherfucking Grey set her free.

In later years, when I looked back on this day, I'd remember that thought and wonder if I was maybe a bit prescient as well. I had no idea how right I was.

It's lunchtime in the store and it's silent as the grave, a sharp contrast from the rush this morning. It seems everyone in town woke up today and realized it's now summer. Time for paint jobs and sprucing up the house for when the kids return. I mostly stayed behind the counter while watching the Clayton's and the other two part-timers try to explain to customers which end of the screwdriver to hold. Everyone should have at least one service job over the course of their lifetime in my opinion. If everyone learned how to maintain patience in the face of stupidity, stubbornness, and sass, the world would probably be a much less violent place.

I'm busy checking up on the online orders. It's dull while requiring attention, and it numbs my mind to the point that I'm almost deaf in regards to my sixth sense. I muse that it's a shame I wasn't born about two centuries earlier. If I'd had to spend all day doing the jobs necessary to survive that modern convenience has rendered quaint, I might be able to pass as normal. I grab a handful of nuts from my plastic baggie. I spice and bake them every week, and it's my go-to snack. I flick out my tongue to get some of the dust, and freeze when a horribly familiar voice blares in my head.

 _Fuck! What am I, fourteen? I am_ not _getting hard just from seeing a tongue. I need to fetter, flog, and fuck this girl and get her out of my system. Not necessarily in that order. Yeah, that'll do the trick._

No. Just… no. I refuse to deal with this right now.

I look up and, yup, he's really there. Still gorgeous in a European melting pot way; the hair's Irish, definitely, but the features are more Italian while the coloring is distinctly Nordic (poor bastard probably doesn't even know for sure where he comes from). Still dressed like a cover model, though today it's for J. Crew instead of GQ. Still thinking of doing things to me that make me unsure whether to call the police or Cosmo.

I'd known he was interested, but I didn't think he'd drive 180 miles just to see me again. I forgot to account for the dizzying wealth; he could have flown here in under an hour. Or hell, maybe he hitched a ride on an F-22 and got here at the speed of sound.

I was too subtle when I tried to warn him off. That, or he just disregarded it. I'll try to crank it up from 'Not Interested' to 'Screw You and Your Little Dog Too'. If that doesn't work, then I'm really in trouble.

"Miss Steele. What a pleasant surprise." If Marilyn Monroe and Morgan Freeman had a grandson by Jeremy Irons, he'd have that voice. So rich, so precise, and dripping with sex. I think my toes just curled.

I think, because all my attention is on keeping my face blank. I will not give him one inch. As far as he'll know, I'm more interested in a pigeon than him. "And you are?" I ask monotonously.

His brows furrow. _Is she serious?! Or just playing me? I can't tell which is worse._ "Christian Grey. We met on Monday."

"Oh, right. That little errand." I roll my eyes. I can practically feel the sudden rage radiate off him. Damn, got to try a different tack. Pissing him off might make him even more interested. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in the area. I need to stock up on some things." Yeah, I'll believe that. His people probably have people to do his shopping for him. Even without the telepathy, I wouldn't fall for that. Or at least I hope so. I'd be a shame to women everywhere if I did.

I plaster on a fake smile. "How can I help, Mr. Grey?" I gush, trying to channel the very essence of the whiny brainless bimbo stereotype. He probably gets more of that in a week than most do all year. Should scare him off.

His eyes narrow. Shoot, I tried too hard. Now he's onto me. Well, let's see if my persistence can outlast his patience.

We both think the same thing at once: _Game on_.

"There are a few items I need. To start with, I'd like some cable ties."

"We stock various lengths! Let me show you," I gab. I wish I had some bubble gum to chew and really pull this off.

"Lead the way, Miss Steele." There's a glint to his eyes, and I know he's going to play hard ball.

I lead him over to the electrical goods aisle, trying to whistle 'Friday'. It's that or Barney's 'I Love You'. He tries to distract himself by ogling my behind, but he's out of luck on that front. I'm no less conservative for work than I am for interrogating a tycoon. My jeans are technically made for children, but I'm small enough that they fit. More importantly, they don't hug my curves, concealing the bubble butt that would probably turn heads if I didn't take drastic measures. My full-sleeve t-shirt is grey with bleach stains all over and a size too big. I've swaddled my neck and collarbone with an itchy scarf, and my hair is bunched under a beanie. I sense his eyes track down to my Chucks. _Not even Louboutins could fix this outfit. Unless they were all she was wearing_.

God save me, what do I have to do? Put on Lady Gaga's Kermit dress?

"What brings you to Portland?" Maybe I can beat him with inane chit-chat.

"I was visiting the WSU farming division based in Vancouver," he says smoothly.

"Ooh, what you working on? Some hideously expensive plan to irrigate the Sahara? Want to play God with some genetic modification?" How the hell does Kate do this passive-aggressive thing? It's exhausting, and it makes me want to rip my tongue out.

I hear him count down from ten very slowly. He does it again in what I think is French before speaking. "I'm funding some research on crop rotation and soil science, actually."

"Oh. Dirt. Yucky." I'm going to need to wash my mouth out with holy water after this is over.

We reach the cable ties. I launch into a sales pitch I try to make as annoying as possible. "Here we have the itty-bitty ones, that's to hold things together when glue dries or something, you don't want to get that stuff on you, it smells. Then there's the medium-ish ones, the kind they use at ski resorts to mark guests or something. I've never been skiing but Kate has and I hear it's so much fun but she mostly likes to stay in the lodge and drink cocoa. Then there's the really big ones, like they use instead of handcuffs in some movies, I can't remember which ones but I'm sure I saw it at least once!"

His right eyelid is twitching, but he's a tough one. "These will do," he says, grabbing the long ones. He's actually going to use those for handcuffs, I bet. I should have thought of something else to say, but really all these bits and bobs are Greek to me.

"What's next?" My cheeks are starting to hurt. I have a newfound respect for flight attendants.

"I'd like some masking tape."

"Whatever for?" I ask. He doesn't know I know about his fetish, and I'm hoping I'll ruffle his feathers by digging near it.

"Redecorating," is the first thing he thinks of. I suppress a snort. I doubt he's ever held a paint-roller in his life.

"Right this way! It's in the decorating aisle, what are the odds?!" I try to giggle like Calliope in 'Cinderella', the one with Brandy. It probably sounded more like the mean blonde boy in Spy Kids 2. Whatever, it's a win-win either way. I see him actually grimace before I turn and lead him away.

"Have you worked here long?" he asks, remembering why he's here in the first place: satisfy his odd curiosity for me.

"Too long!" I bellow like it's been four decades instead of four years. I actually make him jump. I wince when I see Patrick look around from the other end of the store. Thank God I'm quitting for graduation. I'm not sure I could live this down.

I crouch to pick up the two widths we stock. I'm not going to bend over with this guy in the same zip code. "That one," he says, indicating the wider one. _More effective as a gag_. I bite my tongue. I'll never be able to look at this store the same way again. Our fingertips brush as he grabs the tape, and I've never been more grateful I have more pairs of gloves than most girls have shoes. Christian Grey, CEO alone would probably cause me irreparable harm. If the dark hints of his early life I'm getting are true, his touch would squash me like a bug.

"Anything else, Mr. Bigshot?" I ask, trying to hide my desperation. I can't take much more of this.

"Some rope I think," he bites out. A vein has joined the eyelid.

"Yes sir!" I chirp, only to immediately wish I hadn't. Jesus Christ, could I have possibly picked something worse to say? I was so close to losing him. But now I've said the magic words and he's fresh as a daisy again. I'm certain I saw the front of his jeans twitch. Not that I was looking. Really. Honest.

The rope's at the other end of the aisle. "Pick your poison," I manage, waving at the selection. I don't want to list them off like I did with the cable ties. It would read more like the menu at a brothel than a mad lib.

"I'll take five yards of the natural filament rope, please." I have to endure him picturing me struggling against this very length then kissing the scrapes better as I measure it out. I grab my Stanley knife to cut the end, actually debating cutting off a finger. Just a knuckle. Sure, I'd be partially disabled for life but blood, screaming, and an ambulance would get rid of him, right?

"Were you a Girl Scout?" he asks as I tie off a slipknot. I can feel his gaze on my nimble fingers like a blowtorch. He's grinning, and I feel the last of resistance buckle at the sight of those sculpted lips.

"Organized group activities are _soooooo_ not my thing," I drawl, making one last ditch effort.

He grins, smelling weakness. "What is your thing, Anastasia?"

It's my name in that damn voice that does me in. I blow all the air out of my lungs with one massive sigh and let the mask slip off. "Fine. You win." I look away so I don't have to see his smug grin. "Books," I whisper.

Ah, the written word, my most stalwart companion. When you think about it, it's kind of awesome. Someone can bring their thoughts into the world in a way so everyone can see them. They can outlive you for centuries, but they're still there for anyone to pick up and read. I've spent half my life with my nose in a book. My lack of real world friends meant nothing when I was in the company of the Fellowship, the Little Women, or Virgil. A career in publishing is actually my back-up. But as Uncle Ben said, 'with great power comes great responsibility.' If I'm doomed to bear the secrets of all I meet, I should at least do something that makes use of it.

"What kind of books?" He's tilted his head, and he looks much calmer now that I'm not aggravating him. I'm reminded of a puppy. If only he were really that innocent. It would mean we might actually have a shot.

"Homer, Milton, Fitzgerald. Stories that defined cultures. Right now for fun I'm rereading the Song of Ice and Fire series."

He blinks. Why do guys get such thick lashes when they don't even need them? "Morbid, that."

I shrug. "It's realistic. Martin built a world and let it take care of itself. The good guys die and the bad guys thrive. It's not nearly as boring as the standard fairy tale fare." I glare at the items in his hands. I wish luck to the girl he uses them on. If he's half as fixated on her as he is on me, she's going to be run ragged. "Anything else you need?"

"I don't know. What else would you recommend?"

I don't even think. "Roofing plastic."

His brows reach for the sky. _That's the last thing I expected out of that smart, sweet mouth._ "What for?" he asks, clearly amused.

"Disposing of the body of course," I reply, waving at his kidnapper's toolkit.

He chortles. "Don't think I'll be needing that." He relaxes. Apparently, I just made this whole trip worth it. How starved for positivity is he that one laugh can be enough for him. The thought makes me sad. "How's the article coming along?"

I smile automatically, recalling Kate's feeling of triumph when she wrapped it up right after breakfast. "Kate's having a blast with it. She's painting you as the restless wunderkind. I think you might actually like it if you manage not to take it too personally." I pause. If he's determined to stick to me like a tick, I might as well use his fascination for something good. "Her only concern is that she doesn't have any original stills to go with the article."

 _Tenacious to the end, Miss Kavanagh. Sure, I'll pose for you. Anything that gets me more time with your delectable friend_. "What sort of photographs does she want?" he asks.

I suppress the knee-jerk guilt I get whenever I use 'insider information' to get my way. Everyone does it, I just happen to have the most. "Just you and a backdrop. Probably staring broodingly off into the distance."

He shrugs. "Well, I'm around. Tomorrow, perhaps."

"Thank you. That's very generous of you. Kate will be ecstatic." I realize I'm smiling at him the way I only do with friends. Huh, guess this worming under the skin thing we have works both ways. My smile widens why I notice that he's kind of stopped breathing. _Fuck that 'I like that' smile. This is dazzling. Majestic. Sublime. It's like I'm looking at the sunrise._ Damn. If he said those kinds of things out loud, I might really consider risking it.

He shakes himself out of his stupor to fish a card out of his wallet. "Let me know about tomorrow. My personal cell is on here. You'll have to call before ten." I handle the card gently. It literally might be easier to get Bill Gates' number than Christian Grey's, he's such a recluse. I really must have captivated him somehow. That actually sucks. It'll make things even harder when I have to break this off. Though hopefully we can just part ways tomorrow and never speak again.

Our little bubble is broken by a male shout. "Ana!"

I fight the urge to facepalm. "I'm with a customer, Paul."

My boss's brother has always reminded me of a Golden Retriever: all-American, affectionate, and unconcerned with personal space. Whereas Jose is shy and hopeful with his advances, Paul just refuses to listen when I say no. He's a victim of good breeding, just smart, rich, and good-looking enough to think he's God's gift to women. He's actually a bit of a jerk, but I tolerate him for the sake of my job.

"Ana, it's so good to see you!" he says too loud, coming at me with his arms wide. I duck under his reach to come out behind him. He turns, grinning cheekily, and makes for me again. I maneuver again, putting myself slightly behind Christian. He's shifted from warm to arctic. _Keep your motherfucking paws to yourself._ In this one instance, I'm glad I've caught the attention of a possessive hardass. He can fend off the overfamiliar playboy.

"Paul, welcome back from Princeton. Mr. Clayton will be happy to have you back for his birthday. This is Christian Grey. He might be able to give you some advice about business," I rattle off, trying to make Paul pause before he gets within arm's reach.

"Mr. Clayton," Christian says coolly, as sterile as an operation theater.

"Mr. Grey," Paul says pouting. Jeez, get over yourself dude. "Wait up, not _the_ Christian Grey of Grey Enterprises Holdings?" Suddenly Paul is gushing over Christian instead of me. "Wow – is there anything I can get you?"

"Anastasia has it covered, Mr. Clayton. She's been very attentive." _Now fuck off._

"Cool." There's no word for his expression other than simpering. "Catch you later, Ana."

"If you insist," I mutter under my breath. I watch him leave for the stockroom with relief. "That all, Mr. Grey?" I ask, turning to him. There's a speculative look in his eyes.

"Just these items." _Shit, I'm out of time. What am I doing? There's no way she'd be my sub, and even if she would, she doesn't know anything. Do I really want to have to train her… fuck yeah, I do. But what if she doesn't even listen? I'm getting nothing from her here._

I look down and make my way for the register. I'm going to have to deal with this soon. Maybe tomorrow after the photos, because Kate will move Earth and heaven to get those shots so it's sure to happen. I can't bring myself to look him in the eyes, knowing I'm probably going to break the heart he claims not to have.

 _Look at me, damn it! I want to see those eyes._

Well, everyone deserves a last request. I look up from ringing up his DIY bondage supplies. "That'll be eighteen dollars, sir." I offer a halfhearted grin.

He eyes me intensely as he hands over his credit card. He's puzzled by my sudden mood shift. I offer a bag. "Yes please, Anastasia." _Beautiful name for a beautiful girl._

"I'll call you about the photo shoot," I offer, retreating back behind my walls.

"Good. Until tomorrow, then." He turns to leave then pauses. _I need her to know I'm interested. Even if I don't understand why._ "Oh, and Anastasia? I'm glad Miss Kavanagh couldn't make it." He flashes a crooked grin that messes with my hormones and saunters out the door.

I wrestle with my feelings as I watch him leave. I'm attracted to him, no doubt. And there's something sweet and endearing hidden under the gruffness and formality. But I simply cannot handle everything he has to give. So I will have to make due with nothing.

I switch places with John and make for the storeroom. I have to coordinate with Kate and Jose. We've got a photo shoot to organize.

* * *

 **CPOV**

I glance around my suite. It's nice enough, I guess. The bed's headboard is carved like a sun, and the furniture and carpet is a comforting mix of brown, beige, and gold. The staff of the Heathman had fallen over themselves to welcome me. I'm sure they all hope I'll hand out thousand dollar tips like potato chips. I could afford it, sure, but I try not to spend money for the sake of spending it. I mean, I demand the best of everything and I can satisfy almost every whim I have, but I try not to be wasteful. I appreciate just how much I have.

I'd made a quick call to Taylor, ignoring the mild chiding for leaving the city without warning him, and I now had an overnight bag and laptop. I got him his own room, but he's content to just stand in the corner, eyes alert as always. He'd asked me to stand in the hall while he swept the room. I tried not to scoff to his face. I might offend a few people with anti-monopolistic sentiments, and who knew how many livelihood's I'd ruined when I stripped a bad company to the bones, but I doubt I'd pissed anyone off enough that they'd try to slip a bomb into a random hotel on the off chance I'd stay there. He should be more concerned about some fangirls learning I'm here and breaking down the door.

I'm shooting off e-mails to all my department heads. There's a new umbrella company on my radar, based in Japan. It combined a bunch of small, local energy companies with a couple labs and promising start-ups. It's still in its infancy, but I see serious potential. Plus I want to get more of a foothold in the Far East; the Chinese keep blowing me off. Maybe when I'm parked right outside their front door, they'll be more willing to listen.

I get a call, and it's Grace. I bite back a sigh. I love my mother, I truly do. I just don't understand how she can return the sentiment. I was such a horrible kid and teen, I'm surprised she didn't wash her hands of me and ship me off to foster care. Then I got better, but only because her best friend started bribing me with sexual favors. I don't want to hurt her, as she undoubtedly would if she found that out, so I try to keep my distance. The less she sees me, the less I have to deal with her CIA-like maternal voodoo and the chance of her figuring out everything that's up with me. Plus, a very, _very_ small part of me is ashamed for getting fucked hard by my mom's best friend and then fucking her back. I try not to listen to that part. If Flynn picked up on it, he'd never let me hear the end of it.

"Hello, Grace."

"Christian, baby. How many times must I remind you that you can still call me Mom?" I can practically see her gentle grin, and a little knot in my chest unwinds.

"At least once more, Mrs. Grey, as always," I reply, smiling. As a late 20th birthday present, my mom had dragged me to see Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl. Just the two of us, like when I was a kid in onesie pajamas watching Saturday morning cartoons with her. I'd found some of the one-liners very amusing for some reason, and we'd picked up a few. It was a little ritual of ours, and it set my mind at ease. I remember Anastasia's question Monday about family. Maybe I don't spend enough time with them.

"What's going on with you, son? Still busy as a bee with your modest venture?"

That's what she'd called it when it was born in my room. Thirteen billion dollars later, that's still her name for it.

"I'm doing well. The company's doing fine, thanks for asking. I'm actually looking into something in Japan. Interested in seeing Mount Fuji again?" I'm more engaged than usual. Normally I'd be offering one word answers. I attribute it to the lingering effects of the sliver of the divine that is Miss Steele's 'thinking of someone I love' smile. She'd been so glad that I'd consider doing a favor for Miss Kavanagh. Well, her sexuality _was_ still in question. And they had been living together for four years. But they were women, so they could just be friends and they wouldn't find it weird. Still, I might have competition.

I realize I've spaced out when I hear my mother's voice raise volume as she calls out. "I'm sorry, Mom. My thoughts wandered. Could you repeat that?"

"I said, thank you for the offer but no. My flying days are far behind me, you know that." I chuckle at the reminder. I'd offered her and my father my private jet for a second honeymoon three years ago. On the flight over, they'd run into turbulence so bad that Grace swears that she saw her maker. She'd refused to get on a plane ever since. They'd had to take a cruise ship back from Italy. On my dime, of course. It was a bargain at twice the price to get to tease the woman who can due emergency surgery on screaming patients without blinking for jumping at a little rough air.

We exchange small talk for a bit, discussing some of my recent acquisitions and my 'charity' work. Eventually though, I call her out.

"So, what's the real reason for this call? I hope you didn't just want to check up on me. I'm a big boy now, Mom, you don't have worry so much."

"I'm your mother, Christian. It's my job to worry." I can feel her rolling her eyes, but it doesn't infuriate me like it did when Anastasia did. If it had, I'd just hang myself and be done with it, because that would be just plain wrong. "But if you must know, Mia is flying back home on the twenty-eighth. I was hoping you'd join us all for a family dinner that Sunday. We haven't had one of those in a while."

They actually happen every week. What she means is that I haven't shown up for one in months. I suppress a surge of guilt. Talking to her on the phone is great, but I'd have so much to hide if I came in person. Still, she sounds so hopeful. Besides, it's Mia. The one person who can hug me without it feeling like I'm getting burned all over again. I quickly pull up my schedule on my computer. "I'm free. I'll be there, I promise."

"Perfect! I'll tell Gretchen right away. I want something special so we're planning in advance, and your sister should get a taste of something she hasn't cooked herself. She's working quite hard over there. It's so nice that she's found her passion."

"Sure, Mom," I say neutrally. In reality, I don't expect much to come of Mia's little study abroad. It'll be just another in her long list of distractions. She's the textbook trust fund baby. But she's my sister, so it's okay.

And since I'm in a good mood, something of course comes along to ruin it. "Shall I tell her to set an extra place?" my mother asks with a poor attempt at nonchalance.

My face aches from frowning so fast. "No, you shouldn't, Mom." I almost call her Grace again, but I don't want to really hurt her. I know she comes from a good place, she just doesn't realize the futility of her efforts.

"Christian, you know that your father and I love you no matter what, and Elliot and Mia feel the same way. Whoever it is you bring, we won't care as long as you're happy. I hope you understand that."

Sheesh, the gay thing again. This stopped being funny a long time ago, but it's easier to let them think that. I could hardly explain the reason they never see me with anyone is because I don't want the girl to be recognized by anyone in the BDSM community. Elena only finds me the best, after all. Real pros. No novices like Miss Anastasia Steele.

"That's not the problem, Mom. I'm just not involved with anyone right now. If and when it happens, you'll be the first to know."

I hear her sigh, and it's like the air settles on my shoulders. "I do worry about you, Christian. I really do. You're such a bright, smart, wonderful man, and I'm so proud of you it hurts. But you keep clinging to this idea that you're unworthy of love, and nothing could be further from the truth. You are good and kind and generous and you deserve all the happiness that life has to offer. One day, someone's going to come along that's going to make you feel like you're born again, and the world is a brand new place full of beauty and possibilities. I just hope that you recognize the chance when it comes, because it won't last forever."

I suddenly have trouble swallowing. I grit my teeth and push the silly emotions aside. "Don't hold your breath, Mom," I say, trying to sound joking. But the truth is, that will never happen for me. I'm damaged goods. I'll never find what my mom and dad have. Even if this thing with Miss Steele is making me feel things I've never felt, it won't last. Provided I even manage to snare her, it will probably last only a few months, a year tops. Then I'll get bored like I always do and move on. Or she'll fall in love with me and I'll have to let her go. That's the most I can hope for, and it's enough. No use wasting time pining for 'more'.

My mom sighs again. "Just think about it, Christian. I love you. See you in two weeks."

"Love you too, Mom," I whisper before hanging up.

I probably sat there for half an hour, sulking and feeling sorry for myself, until the phone rang again in my hands.

I snap it to my ear. "Grey," I state, back in the familiar role of cold but courteous chief executive.

"Is this a bad time? I figured someone who could retire ten times over wouldn't be working after 7."

There's the light, musical wit I hadn't known I was craving. I feel my bad mood vanish like ice in boiling water. "Miss Steele. How nice to hear from you."

"We have a photographer ready. If you're still being accommodating, we can do it tomorrow. Where would be most convenient for you? Heaven forbid you should have to lift a finger."

I can't decide whether I'd rather gag her or have her talk dirty to me. If she's willing, I'd like to try both. Repeatedly. "I'm staying at the Heathman in Portland. Shall we say 9:30 tomorrow morning?"

"See you there." Damn, she's distant again. This girl has more mood swings than I do. I guess she's just better at acting than I am. I shudder as I recall our little face-off earlier. She'd almost managed to make me write her off. It was like she'd transformed into one of Mia's gauche, mindless frenemies.

"I look forward to it, Miss Steele." I hang up.

I realize Taylor is staring at me. Right, he doesn't know about Miss Steele and the inexplicable effect she has on me. I turn back to my computer. "We're attending a photo shoot tomorrow, Taylor. Here in the hotel. They're college students, completely harmless. I've met one of them, I trust her character."

"Very well, sir." His brow is still furrowed, no doubt trying to work out when this happened. I never go anywhere but Escala, Grey House, or the restaurants I own around Seattle. I don't bother to explain to him. He knows more about me than anyone but Gail, Flynn, and maybe Elena. But it's not like we're buddies. I'm his boss, and he's a model employee.

I decide to call it a night. I want to wake up early so I can workout and still look presentable. With luck, I'll be able to spirit Anastasia away afterward and we can discuss what's going on between us. I'm not too worried. I always get what I want in the end.

I fall asleep smiling.

I wake with the dawn and grab Taylor so we can go for a run. He shadows me while I try to get in my usual five miles. We pass Clayton's on the route and I grin. The site of my second attempt to decipher the enigma of Anastasia Steele. Third time's the charm, they say.

We get back and I've got an hour until I get to see Miss Steele again. I eat a fruit cup methodically before I jump in the shower. Taylor, always prepared, has packed my preferred toiletries so I don't have to deal with the cheap, mass-produced chemical slop the hotel provides. While I'm shaving, I pay extra attention not to nick myself. I want to look my best. And not because I'm modeling for the stills.

I'm dressed and wondering why I'm so nervous when Taylor knocks on my door. He informs me that Ana and her party have arrived and are set up in another suite. I lead the way, eager to see her again.

I think there are other people in the room, but all I see as I enter is her. I cock a grin as I offer my hand. "Miss Steele, we meet again."

She foils me again by bowing. Well, at least she didn't stare at my hand until I dropped it again. "Mister Grey, this is Katherine Kavanagh." She waves her hand at a tall, leggy blonde that would make most men stare, and by the way she carried herself she knew it. She's looking me straight in the eye. I immediately dislike her. Whereas Ana's gaze was uncomfortably discerning, it was also distant, like she was merely a neutral observer. Miss Kavanagh is aggressive, like she wants to study me like an insect.

"The persistent Miss Kavanagh. How do you do?" I try not to laugh. If this woman had stumbled into my office on Monday, I'd have gotten rid of her as soon as possible. And then I'd be left totally unawares of Anastasia and her entire fascinating existence. "I trust you're doing better? It's too bad you couldn't make our appointment," I lie through my whitened teeth.

"I'm fine, thank you, Mr. Grey. I appreciate you taking the time to do this." She doesn't hesitate to shake my hand. Her grip is firm and forceful, better than some presidents' I've met. She smiles professionally, ready to do business. She certainly has the cajones to make it as a journalist. If she is Miss Steele's lover, she's definitely the top.

At that moment, Anastasia gives a kind of choked squeak. I glance at her worried, and she's biting her lip so hard it's gone bloodless. And she's blushing magenta instead of cherry blossom pink. I'm suddenly glad I'm more of a grower than a shower.

She shakes her head and regains the phlegmatic cast I'm beginning to hate. "This is Jose Rodriguez, our photographer." She indicates a fit, young Hispanic that's looking at her in a way that has my hackles rising. He turns to look at me, and I see a similar coolness in his eyes.

"Mr. Grey." _She's mine_.

"Mr. Rodriguez." _Not if I have anything to say about it._

"Where would you like me?" I ask. I remind myself and him that he's here for me. But apparently it's Miss Kavanagh running the show.

"Mr. Grey, if you could sit here please? Be careful of the lighting cables. And we'll do a few standing too."

I spend the next twenty minutes imitating a mannequin, turning and posing at Mr. Rodriguez's direction with Miss Kavanagh's approval. At least the fucker can do his job. Twice my eyes wander to Miss Steele. She's got her Mona Lisa grin back, and I remind myself that I'm getting my picture taken. I can't imagine fucking it off her face.

When it's done, Miss Kavanagh shakes my hand again. "Thank you again, Mr. Grey." Rodriguez holds out his hand too, bound by manners. I feel him try to crush my hand and hold back a smirk as I return the pressure twofold. He tries to hide a wince.

"I look forward to reading the article, Miss Kavanagh." Normally I'd be talking out my ass, but Anastasia's words yesterday have piqued my interest. I turn to her. "Will you walk with me, Miss Steele?"

"Why not?" I breathe deep, reaching for the calm that has served me well in many a boardroom. I can't tell whether she's interested or just being polite.

"Good day to you all," I say to the room, opening the door for her. She moves smoothly out, her brown bell-bottoms swishing around her sensible shoes. They clash with her navy button-up. It's not a blouse, the buttons are on the right side. On the slim chance she does decide to contract for me, the first stop is Neiman Marcus.

"I'll call you, Taylor," I say as we enter the corridor. He nods and makes back for his room. I look back at Miss Steele, who is impassively meeting my gaze.

"I wondered if you would join me for coffee this morning."

She doesn't respond immediately. Just keeps staring at me. I fidget but refuse to look away. Her eyes are like an iceberg. Cold and stunning, but there's so much beneath the surface I can't see. And she's so still, not shifting her weight or tapping her fingers or anything. I have the mad thought that she'd be perfect as one of those people on the street that pretend to be statues.

"Let me trade cars with Kate," she says finally. I smile wide, ridiculously please. She said yes, to what was clearly something that could be construed as a date. I don't want to count my chickens before they hatch, but it's a promising start.

She slides around me to reenter the room. A bit of her hair trails across my arm, and I swear that I started tingling. Fuck, I don't know what makes me so sensitive to her, but I like it. The sex would be mind-blowing.

She emerges soon enough. I've arranged myself against the wall, trying not to seem like I was counting the seconds. She just nods at me. "After you, Miss Steele," I say. I let her get a few paces ahead and glance at the top of her legs. Damn, no luck. The shirt almost reaches her knees. Her hair, so silky and straight on Monday, is now tangled and bushy, probably from shoving it all under that stupid hat yesterday.

"How long have you known Katherine Kavanagh?" I ask. Hopefully her tone will give away whether or not I'm wasting my time chasing a homo.

"Since the day after orientation. We're like sisters."

"Hmm." I have to resist the urge to whoop. That's a load off my chest.

We reach the elevators and I reach for the call button. I think I hear her mutter "Give me a break," but before I can puzzle it out the doors open, revealing a couple somewhere between Anastasia's and my age at second base. They jump apart, looking anywhere but us. I try not to laugh. I can't fault them. If Miss Steele and I had the moving closet to ourselves, I'd be trying to steal a few bases myself.

We shuffle in and let the doors close. It's so awkward it's funny. I glance sideways at my own companion. Deciding faint heart never won fair lady, I reach out to grab her hand. But she crosses her arms before I'm halfway there, and I have to pull back while trying not to look like an ass. I see gloves and feel the need to bang my head against a wall. Does she never take the damn things off? At this rate, I'll never get to see if that skin feels as smooth and supple as it looks.

We reach the lobby and Anastasia takes off at a powerwalk like she just heard the pistol at the Kentucky Derby. I'm left to try and catch up, wondering how someone with such short legs could move so fast. I hear the couple behind us break out in giggles. I realize how ridiculous this would look to anyone that knows me: _me_ chasing after the girl, not the other way around.

She leads the way all four blocks to the Portland Coffee House. Funny, I never said where we were going. Sure, it's the closest place that's half-decent, but there must have been at least one Starbucks nearer the hotel. Miss Steele and her strange ability to seem to know things without having to ask is getting spooky. I think I see her shoulders tense as we come through the door.

"Why don't you get us a table while I go get the drinks? What would you like?"

"Green tea, bag out please."

I look at her askance. "No coffee?"

"I leave that demon's piss to the sloths that don't care about their stomach lining."

The fact that she says it with a straight face has me dangerously close to rolling on the floor. "Okay, bag out. Sugar?" I realize that that could be an endearment. The thought doesn't annoy me like most displays of sickly sweetness do.

She looks at me with the first emotion I've seen from her today. I don't even care that it's pity. "You don't know anything about green tea, do you?"

"Not really," I chuckle. "Anything to eat?"

"No sir." And just like that she's a drone again. But I don't care. She called me 'sir'. I'm on fucking cloud nine.

I wait in line, running my hand through my hair a few times. It's a nervous habit I picked up from Carrick. Elliot does it to. Maybe that's why we both always seem to have, as Eliza my British-American sub put it, 'just-shagged' hair. I try not to think too hard about why my dad has it too. I'm glad that he and Grace are still so in love after over thirty years but… gross.

I carry a tray with our order perched on it to the spot by the window I see Anastasia at. She's staring out it, and I get the sense that she's further away than the stars.

"Penny for your thoughts?" I ask, setting the tray down.

"They're worth a dollar at least," she says back, her lip twitching up for a millisecond. She grabs her cup and teapot before I can offer. She drops the bag into the pot and stares at it intently. I settle myself down with my latte and muffin. They've made a leaf on the surface of my drink. I'm not too impressed; one time I got my own self-portrait. I have no idea how. After exactly one minute (I glanced at my Tag Heuer), she fishes out the bag with a spoon and pours herself a steaming cup of vaguely greenish water up to the brim. She mops up the little drop left over at the spout with a napkin.

"Your thoughts?" I finally prompt her, wondering what all the fuss over leaf juice is about.

"You've obviously never met a serious tea drinker."

I shrug. Then I launch right to the question that's been burning my mind since I entered the suite. "Is he your boyfriend?"

She doesn't even ask who 'he' is. "I don't have a boyfriend at present." She raises her left eyebrow a millimeter. "Or a girlfriend."

Shit, how did she notice that? I nod my understanding and peel the paper off my muffin. I remember when I was a kid I used to eat that too. The crack whore never corrected me and I don't think Grace had the heart to try and break me of the habit. It took a snide comment from a punk in the school cafeteria for me to stop. Not before I cracked his cheekbone, though.

I notice she's staring at my muffin. "Want some?" I offer.

She shakes her head no, but doesn't look up.

We sit there a while. I wait for her to make the first move; I have no idea how to bring up what I really want to talk about and hope she'll start with something innocent so we can go from there. But she stays mute too. I uncross and re-cross my legs, feeling more and more unsettled as the silence drags. She just stares at her overfull tea cup.

It's not until the steam stops curling up from the liquid and she finally reaches out to pick it up that I break. "Are you an only child?" I ask. I already know the answer, but I need this conversation to start before I lose my mind.

"Yes." That said, she proceeds to drink the entire cup in one long sip. She doesn't spill a drop. Thoughts of that kind of suction applied to my favorite body part almost make my eyes cross.

"Tell me about your parents." I try not to be too obvious that I've got a raging boner underneath the table.

She sighs and sets down the cup. Then she straightens her posture and looks at me with eyes more distant than usual. "Let's not do this."

"Do what?" I ask, no idea what she's talking about.

"Act like you didn't get a background check done on me before you even thought about seeing me again or that Kate didn't spend months researching your whole life in preparation for that interview. We both know all the common information about the other. Let's just address the elephant in the room and get to the real reason we're here."

If a paparazzi had been there, I'd be humiliated for life. I'm left gaping at her like a fish out of water. My thoughts are gone. Just gone.

She pours herself more tea.

I finally manage to regain control of my body. Out of nowhere, I'm pissed. She thinks she knows everything. But she has no idea. There's no way she's guessed the truth, and I'll take great joy in correcting her. "Why are we here, then?" I bite out.

"We are here because, for reasons I cannot fathom, you are attracted to me. And I'd be lying if I said you haven't featured in some thoughts that I am unable to describe in a family-friendly setting. But it's never going to work out, so we should both put it behind us and forget about each other."

I feel my heart flutter, actually flutter, when she admits that she's thought about me. If she thinks I'm going to let her go after hearing that, she's got another thing coming. "How can you be so sure? What is it about us that makes you think it wouldn't work?" I brace myself for the obvious: we're from different worlds, she doesn't think she's pretty enough for me, I'm too old for her.

Her eyes shift from being wet and clear as the ocean to flat and hard as cobalt. "Because I am not, have never been, and have no intention of becoming a Submissive."

I fucking fall out of my goddamn motherfucking chair.

I'm sure people at looking at me, but I don't care. I pick myself up and stare down at her, eyes wide. I start to see spots and I realize I'm hyperventilating. She knows. _She_. _Knows_. She knows, and she hasn't signed an NDA. She could tell anyone. She could tell the tabloids. She could tell her friends. She could tell my _family_. This is my own personal apocalypse.

She's not even looking at me. She's back to contemplating her tea. "Unless you want your passing out to be all over social media by sundown, I'd suggest putting your head between your knees."

It's the blithe way she says it, as if she didn't just drop a megaton bomb on my life, which brings me back from the edge. It makes me angry. Anger is good. Anger is familiar. It grounds me. I pick up my tipped-over chair and set it right. I sit down sideways and take her advice. I feel my sense of gravity return as I try to take steady breaths. When I feel that I'm no longer at risk of fainting like a limp-dick wuss, I sit up and turn to face her. My heart's still pounding, but I need to know how the fuck she knows and I need to know it now.

"When did you figure it out?" I demand.

She has the nerve to shrug. "It wasn't that hard. I just put the pieces together."

"What. Pieces?" If I'm that transparent that this little girl picked it up after three meetings at most, then I'm royally fucked.

"You're an arrogant control freak, so you're in the right mindset. You have a high stress job, and studies show there's a correlation between those and the lifestyle. You're clearly not a virgin yet you've never been seen with a woman, and with the amount of eyes on you that means you go to great lengths to keep them hidden. That, or they never leave your room, and only a certain kind of woman is okay with that. You're shopping list yesterday was all items that can be used to restrict movement. You had a wicked gleam in your eye during the interview when you said you, quote, 'indulge in various physical pursuits.' And your breath hitches, eyes dilate, and pants tighten every time I say 'sir'." She gives me the grin that's like a mask on top of a mask, but this time it's a bit sympathetic. "It probably isn't obvious to most. The vast majority of the population barely takes the time to look past their own nose. I'm just good at reading people."

I'm blown away. And not the good way. When she spells it out like that, it seems as obvious as a neon sign. Yet I know that each of the clues she's pointed out mean nothing by themselves. She's just the only one (I pray) to see what they point to. My blind panic is abating, and I'm now filled with a kind of awe. No one had paid close enough attention to me to notice before. I feel… flattered that she took the effort to analyze me like that. But I'm still mad that she even knows in the first place, and terrified that she'll out me to the world. It's such a mess that I'm having trouble telling up from down at this point.

She finishes her tea. "And like I said, I'm not into that. If there's a masochistic bone in my body, it's smaller than the ones in my ears. And I have no interest in having to follow some convoluted contract just to get laid. Even with you, Mr. Grey."

She stands up. "I won't tell anyone. It's none of my business. Not everyone needs the threat of legal action to keep their mouth shut. Thank you for the tea." I get a new smile then. It's melancholy and final and so heartbreakingly lovely. I don't like it. It says 'goodbye'. "Farewell, Christian Grey. Best of luck."

Then she walks away.

* * *

 **APOV**

I have to stop myself from turning around half-a-dozen times before I make it to the next block.

He'd been so scared when I told him what I'd known from the first minute we'd met. Then he'd been furious, until I made it clear that I was the only one that knew. And he'd been so sad when I said goodbye. He'd looked like he'd miss me. But I refuse to second guess myself. This is what's best for both of us. Besides, he just wants in my pants, he doesn't really care about me as a person. Just because someone desires you doesn't mean that they value you.

Everything I told him about how I 'discovered' his secret was true. It just wasn't how I really knew. I'd tried and failed a bunch of different ways to use my gift without having people call the National Inquirer on me, including outright claiming to be psychic, albeit a corny one. The one I finally settled on that made the most sense other than the real answer was to become a kind of reverse Sherlock Holmes. Instead of trying to work out the grand assumption from little details, I looked for the tells that give away what I already know. I usually try to just keep my nose out of everyone else's mess. But when I feel the need to intervene or "go for the hail Mary pass" as Ray puts it, that's how I do it.

I make it to the intersection across from the hotel before I hear him coming after me. And God have mercy on my soul, he still wants to woo me. Libido is begging me to just give in and enjoy the ride, but Common Sense demands I don't give him the time of day. There's perseverance, and then there's being obtuse. Self-Preservation reminds me that he's poison.

I turn to face him. "Don't make this harder than it has to be, Mr. Grey."

"Don't you give me that, _Miss Steele_." His eyes are shining and his cheeks are flushed. Kawaii (she's the one that squeals at kittens and babies and One Direction) joins forces with Libido. "So you don't want to be with me… that way. Fine. But that doesn't mean that we can't still see each other."

My heart leaps into my mouth, only to plummet to my shoes as I tune into his thoughts. He doesn't really mean that. He thinks he can just flip me over to his way of thinking once I get dependent on him. And if he's a quarter as good as he thinks he is, it might actually happen. He's not interested in 'Ana', he's interested in 'the one that got away', the 'forbidden fruit'. Tale as old as time. He wants the one thing he can't have.

"It's a slippery slope, Grey. You don't make a recovering alcoholic work in a bar. 'Lead us not into temptation', as they say. Accept that we're not meant to be." I've resorted to throwing scripture at him. Not even Paul is this obstinate.

"I don't care. I want to be with you, Anastasia Steele."

I bite my tongue. Damn, but that makes my knees go weak. And it rips my guts out that I know it's all empty wind for him. "Let's not kid ourselves. I don't want to be into kink. You don't want to be into hearts and flowers. And neither of us can make the other change."

He closes off then, but not before I see a flash of a brokenhearted boy starved for love. Bleeding Heart joins the fight. "So where does that leave us?"

"An impasse. And we should both just turn around and go back the way we came."

I turn to leave, hoping against hope that he'll finally see reason, when a bicycle comes at me from the left at terminal velocity. I jerk back and away, instinct trying to keep me from being run over, only to hit some kind of wall. A wall that wrapped around my shoulder. A wall that smells intoxicating.

I look up. I'm in the arms of Christian Grey. And he's looking down at me in a way that lets me know exactly what he's going to do.

I freeze like a deer in headlights. I suck in a breath to tell him no, to beg him to stop, to scream for help. But before I can, he bends down and steals my first kiss.

 _The bad man is back. He smells bad, and he's yelling at Mommy. Says Mommy is a stupid whore, a junkie, a good-for-nothing. Mommy doesn't care. Mommy's had her medicine. The bad man sees me and he turns red. I'm scared, but I can't run. My legs don't work. The bad man grabs me by my hair, drags me away from Mommy on the brown, sticky couch. It hurts, so I yell, and the bad man throws me on the ground. He pulls up my shirt. I hear a click. I start to cry, I know what the click means. I try to crawl away, but I'm not fast enough. And then it burns and I scream. Mommy just watches._

Christian flexes his soft, soft lips, pressing them harder against mine.

 _The tree is pretty. I stand and look at it and hold my blankie. The lights twinkle and are all different colors, and the orn-a-ments are all different colors. I like the blue ones. And the top of the tree is a big star. Daddy held Lelliot up, and Lelliot put the star on the tree. Lelliot likes putting the star on the tree. I want to put the star on the tree… but I don't want Daddy to hold me up high. I don't want him to hold me. The star is sparkly and bright._

He opens his lips, moving my slack ones with them, and his tongue flicks out to run against mine.

 _Fucking hell. Why the fuck am I doing this again? So Mrs. Lincoln needs some yard work done, so what? Why do I have to be the one to do it? Cause I was a 'bad boy'? What kind of stupid grade-school shit is that? I can't wait to get home, take a shower, and get high on whiskey. Here comes Mrs. Lincoln with lemonade. What is this, 'Leave it to Beaver'? I mutter thanks and take a sip. It's too sweet. She's looking me up and down, the way the girls at school do, and it's creeping me out; she's older than Mom. Next thing I know, the glass is smacked out of my hand and she's kissing me. Holy shit. Just as I start to panic, feeling the burn creep up under my skin, she pulls away. Then she fucking slaps me. The pain is a shock, and a welcome one. I'm used to pain. After the strangeness of the kiss, it's just the thing I need. Mrs. Lincoln turns and walks away._

He grabs hold of my bottom lip with his teeth, nibbling on it like it's made of candy, his tongue tracing its shape over and over.

 _I take a sip of water, grateful for the break. Being a Dominant is tough work. I have a new respect for Elena for keeping up with the bucking bronco I must have been when I started out. But I've outgrown the whole sub thing, so now she's teaching me, with herself as an instructional model. She's still tied up in her own dungeon. I'm eager to get back and do to her all the things she's ever done to me. I know just how darkly pleasurable they are. My dick almost falls out of my opened jeans at the thought. Then I hear the door and look up. Fuck, her husband's home. This won't end well._

He finally pulls back, only to dive back in for a little peck, as if putting his signature to the deed.

 _I wake up screaming, thrashing the sheets until I'm tangled and can't get out. Fuck, the whore again. If she wasn't already burning in hell, I'd push her down myself. I get up and move to the piano. I play and play, harsh and loud and pained, looking out into the dark. No one can touch me up here, not in my castle in the sky. I hear a noise and turn. Leila's up. I forgot she was staying. If I squint, with that brown hair and pale skin, she looks like the cunt who gave me life. I stand up and drag her up to my playroom. I'll cane her until she cries or safe words, whichever comes first, then stick my cock up her ass and pound her until she's panting like a bitch in heat before I allow myself to come. Vengeance and Control. My two favorite things. All that I need._

Christian ends the kiss and looks down at me. There's a smug little smirk on his face. He thinks he's won. No one can resist him after a kiss like that.

I do the only thing I can think of.

I twist my hips, curl my arm, and give the cocksucking motherfucking flaming piece of shit bastard son of a three-legged dog and a whore greedy barbaric _mind-rapist_ the uppercut of my life.

He falls back onto the ground like a puppet with his strings cut, out like a light. He looks so stupid and pathetic. It doesn't help. The pain in my hand can't come close to the mental anguish I'm going through right now.

I turn and walk away, ignoring the people yelling at me, asking what the hell happened, the cars honking at me.

I drive home in a daze, slower than I've ever gone. I stumble up the stairs, every mental whisper like a nail being shoved into my brain. Kate. I need Kate. Kate is safe. Kate is home.

I have no idea how to open the door, even though the keys in my hand. I bang on the door until she opens the door. Her annoyed scowl morphs into shock and concern. "Ana, what's wrong?! You're crying!"

Am I? So that's why it's hard to see.

"What happened? Did Grey do this to you?"

I shudder at the sound of his name. "He… he kissed me." I rasp. And suddenly the tears really start to fall and my throats closing up but I have to tell her and I don't care that my voice is thin and reedy and too high. "He kissed me and I wasn't ready and he wouldn't stop and… and…"

I collapse, all the strength leaving me as the enormity of what just happened finally hits me. Kate catches me and rides me to the floor, holding me in her arms as I curl into a ball and let it all out. She kisses my forehead and her thoughts fill my head like a balm. She knows I avoid touching people, she'd have to be blind not to. She thinks the reason is because I was abused, and I let her think that. I almost wish it were true. It would be better if I was just another victim instead of cursed like this. She thinks Grey moved too fast and that set me off. She's already thinking of where to hide the body.

I choke on a hysterical giggle. I'd help. The fucker should die. I don't care that he just wanted a 'taste' of me, what he really did was carve his name into my very soul, and I'm not sure if the wound will ever heal.

I should have kicked him in the balls when I had the chance.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoy this. If you think I'm exaggerating about Ana's reaction, I respectfully disagree. Christian is, in his own words, fifty shades of fucked up. He is not happy, he's been tortured by a heartless bastard as a kindergartener, abandoned by a druggie mother, and molested and mind-fucked by a pedophile. He can barely deal with his own issues after 28 years, how's Ana supposed to take it when it's shoved on her in the space of** _ **seconds**_ **?**

 **Anyway, let's all wish a happy birthday to our lovely Ana on her 26** **th** **. And, on a more serious note, let's all have a moment of silence to honor those that lost their lives in the attacks of September 11, 2001. And while we may mourn those we lost, we must not allow ourselves to lash out at the wrong people. I've watched in shame the rise of Islamophobia in our country since that terrible day, and it's only gotten worse since the birth of ISIS. But what we all must remember is that those planes were flown by terrorists who subscribe to a very radical, extreme branch of their own religion. It makes no more sense to hold all Muslims accountable for al-Qaeda than to hold all white people accountable for the KKK or all Christians accountable for the LRA.**

 **So just stop and think before you sneer at a woman wearing a hijab. Take a moment to think before you call a guy out for saying Allah. Give the Quran a skim and realize that it's the same as the Torah or the Bible, only the names were changed.**

 **Blah, too heavy. Let me know what you think in reviews. Favorite so your friends know about me. Follow so you can get more as soon as I crank it out. Good night, everybody!**


	3. Chapter 3

**I spent so long playing with this plot in my head, now that I'm actually writing it wants to come out as fast as it can. I love all the support I've gotten on such short notice. I wasn't really surprised that I saw people taking almost militant sides in the pro-hit, anti-hit debate. All I have to say about that is that's the thing about humanity: that two people can see the same thing and have different opinions. We should celebrate that diversity and just agree to disagree.**

 **But I don't care how poor and abused Christian is, no means no.**

 **Do as I say, not as I do people!**

 **Let's see the aftermath of Ana learning more about Christian than he knows himself. Author exits!**

* * *

 **APOV**

How I aced my exam Monday morning when I'd cried myself sick the night before, I'll never know. I don't even remember taking it. Guess I was on autopilot.

I'd really freaked Kate out Sunday. I'd wandered from Niagara Falls to out-of-context laughter to listless silence and back again the whole day. She'd tried to be there for me the whole day, but normally I was the one doing the comforting, so she was pretty out of her depth. After my second time working myself up to vomiting, she'd dug out the big guns: chamomile, codeine, and Clair de Lune. Those had finally managed to knock my brain waves into theta rhythm.

I floated in a daze for most of that week, my mind shutting down, trying not to think too much in order to prevent any more panic attacks. Days were long and dragging exams that would be the final stretch to earning my degrees. Nights were a carousel of different coping mechanisms.

Monday, Kate ordered me an extra-large pepperoni and mushroom with wings hot enough to make my face numb and dug out Ratatouille. I'd munched in silence, appreciating the gesture, but my scars were still too fresh. I couldn't even do my usual bit where Kate and I would mute the movie and do the whole Linguini/Colette training montage ourselves. That, more than anything, is what let her know I was out of it.

Tuesday was spa day. Kate ran me a bubble bath with salts and candles, clucked over my nails and sternly told me that if insisted on wearing gloves and forcing my hands to soak in their own sweat that I should at least have the decency to exfoliate, and let me give her a massage. You'd think it would be the other way around, but Kate's bumbling fingers are something I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy (not even Grey deserves that kind of pain). It works out fine, since I can 'feel' the phantom sensation of my own work when I tease and tackle the knots in her tan back. I'd had a phase where I bought a bunch of physiology books so I could figure out exactly why all of Toshiro's joint locks worked, and it had led to me learning how to give a damn good rub down. What I really like about it is the chance to spend a long time just touching another human being, feeling the warmth and reminding myself that I'm not really some kind of ghost that can't interact with anyone. I love Kate for giving me that.

If I ever meet someone with the same power as me and we had sex, we'd probably die from the feedback loop. What a way to go though. Death by orgasm.

I'm suddenly glad Kate is face down and can't see my scowl. It would give her nightmares. Of all the things I had to assimilate, the preoccupation with sex was the most annoying. Not to mention the temper and the paranoia and the horrible trauma of being worked over by two different predators –

I jerk myself out of it and get back to digging in on Kate's uncooperative trapezius.

By Wednesday, I'd had enough of Kate's hovering. I was grateful, but I needed some space. So I'd packed up my gun case and went to the place to shoot. Literally. The Place To Shoot is one of the most popular gun ranges in the Portland area. I'd had to wait a while since I wasn't actually a member of the NRA. On the off chance that the men in black choppers come for me, I don't want to make it easy for them. I avoid having my name on as many records as I can. The apartment is in Kate's name. I bought Wanda with cash from a mom-and-pop dealership.

I finally get a stall and proceed to empty my weight in .38 ammunition into cardboard cut outs. I'd debated actually printing out pictures of Grey's face to tape on, but I was afraid that would get the cops called on me. I'm usually not the best shot in the world. Sure I could hit the broad side of a barn, but I wouldn't try to take the headshot if someone broke into the apartment and held Kate hostage. Still, I manage to get every round within the black when I picture that smug grin after _he_ had gone and inflicted himself on me.

I got back to the apartment reeking of cordite. Kate just rolled her eyes and left me to myself. It's one of her biggest pet peeves. She's a strong proponent of gun control. I, on the other hand, want to have options. I might be as physically fit as it's possible for a woman my size to be, and a master of the art warriors of old used to kill each other when they couldn't reach their swords, but the simple fact is that there will always be someone stronger, better, or faster. Or, let's be honest, bigger. So, I feel safer with my Beretta.

Besides, if the Prohibition taught us anything, it's that outlawing something doesn't make it disappear. By the same logic, closing down every gun store won't stop gun violence. Besides, if everyone were armed and trained, maybe people would be a bit more hesitant to start a fight. And I recognize that's the same logic that led to the Cold War and the fear of a nuclear holocaust, but it's not fair to compare the two. Guns can only kill one person per shot, not one city.

And why am I being this defensive about the gun thing? Because Grey is anti-gun and I want to prove the bastard wrong.

Thursday I felt recovered enough that I was ready to see Adrian. So as soon as my final ended, I hopped into Wanda and put-put-putted away to Longview. I pulled into a lot with only eight spaces and walked to the tattoo parlor tucked away in an alley. Despite the trashy exterior, it's one of the cleanest, most well-certified places for a hundred miles in any direction.

I remember when I first saw this place. I'd just been touched by Toshiro in sophomore year. His 81 years had been the biggest merger I'd ever had to deal with, and I'd been left reeling. It was starting to get seriously crowded in my head; when I was really tired and not quite awake in the morning or evenings, I actually started to forget 'who' I was. Desperate, I'd come on the idea of getting a tattoo. Something permanently marked on my skin, something unique to me, something I could look at and assure myself I wasn't having a vivid flashback. Like a totem in Inception, though I'd had the idea before that movie came out.

Adrian had been the only artist available without an appointment. He'd been very patient and understanding with me, and didn't bat an eye when I'd asked that he not touch me at all unless he was wearing plastic gloves. He'd talked me through the whole process, and offered me his number to call if I had any questions about aftercare.

My first tattoo was a simple thing for my left wrist. 'Temet Nosce', Latin for 'know thyself', repeated three times to form a bracelet half-an-inch wide. Simple and unobtrusive, but a constant confirmation of my identity. I'd liked it so much that I'd decided to get a tattoo for every person I'd touched. I'd also decided to stick with word tattoos. Pictures may speak a thousand of them, but it's so hard to decide what they really say. I'd stick with the medium I was used to, of ordered thought etched with ink onto a surface.

My tribute to Ray read **"Dad, your guiding hand on my shoulder will remain with me forever."** Cheesy as it was, I'd had it done on my actual shoulder, the right specifically.

Alice, sweet little thing, full of nonsense and imagination and hope, had made me think of her namesake as lovingly told by C.S. Lewis. For her, on the underside of my right forearm, I'd gotten the first verse of 'The Jabberwocky'. **"'Twas brillig and the slithy toves/ Did gyer and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves/ And the mome raths outgrabe."**

Kate, whose purpose in life was to find the stories that had never been told and share them with the world, who could cheer me up and piss me off in the same breath, my dearest friend in all the world, had gotten a quote from one of her idols and greatest inspirations on my right side. **"Journalism can never be silent: That is its greatest virtue and its greatest fault. It must speak, and speak immediately, while the echoes of wonder, the claims of triumph and the signs of horror are still in the air."**

And Toshiro, the man who'd led to my new guilty pleasure. His life had been so inspiring. Enduring one of the greatest horrors in human history, rendered hideous and weak, fleeing to the very land that had killed everyone he'd known, treated like an outcast for decades, and still he held no hatred in his heart. He took the teachings of Siddhartha to heart, letting go of all resentment and seeking and promoting harmony in all things. I'd decided to honor him with his ideal written in his own language where it was most important. Now I had the kanji for **"Peace"** over my heart.

Adrian had been the guy who'd done them all. He'd done such a good job with the first, not minding my panicked calls when it'd started leaking gunk and he'd assured me that it didn't mean I was going to die. Fresh tattoos are essentially open wounds, if very pretty ones. You have to take good care of them, letting them breathe while keeping them free of bacteria. We talked a lot while he was applying them, trying to take my mind off the pain. By the time I'd gotten them all finished, we were bosom buddies. He was a fellow old soul, bohemian in the extreme, and totally unafraid to be himself no matter how much society might try to shove him in a box. If Kate was my sister in all but blood, then Adrian was my brother.

I'd hugged him last Christmas, tucking my head into his neck and letting him into my life forever. He'd squeezed me right back, a silent, strong presence that let me know that I didn't have to face the world alone. His tattoo went on my upper left arm, where his hand would rest whenever we went out as friends to take on the town and enjoy our youth. A simple truth with a deep, complex meaning: **"Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You."** Doctor Seuss, whose colorful books had made Adrian realize he wanted to be an artist.

As I walk in, an honest to goodness bell jingled over my head. I take a moment to breathe in the sharp acidic scent of dyes and antiseptic. The buzz of injectors reminds me of a beehive. Adrian is already waiting for me.

"Ana! How you doing, dollface? So good to see you. I can't wait for you to make an even bigger advertisement for my work of yourself for whatever lucky man finally sees you in all your glory. Hopefully he won't mind that I've gotten to so much first."

I roll my eyes as I involuntarily grin. Whereas Kate is content to just lament my lack of interaction with the opposite sex, Adrian actively teases me for it. 'Those sweet jugs won't be perky forever' is one of his favorite phrases to try and motivate me. "Oh come on, Adrian, you know you're the only man for me. Is that a tube sock in your pants or are you just happy to see me?"

He throws his head back and laughs. His bald head is covered in a mandala that's kaleidoscopic in its detail. An ouroboros winds its way around his neck. The rest of him is covered by a hoodie and skinny jeans, but I know practically every other square inch of his skin bears another piece of art. "Can of Pringles, sweetheart. But it's not for you. I love you more than life, but you know I'm queer as a three-dollar-bill."

I nod, glancing at his too-full cheekbones and flared hips. Adrian is queer in every sense of the word.

Born Madilyn, it was around four that he'd come to realize he wasn't like other girls. He'd rather dress up as Batman than a princess. He wanted to play with racecars instead of dolls. And he absolutely hated being referred to as 'young lady'. One night, he'd taken a pair of scissors, cut off his pigtails, and announced to his parents that he was a boy.

Fortunately, his parents were open-minded and loving enough to accept that their son had been born in the wrong body, though his dad had taken a little convincing (the word of three different gender therapists, actually). Unfortunately, the rest of the world hadn't been as kind. They'd gotten angry calls and hate mail all through elementary school from other parents, outraged that they would let their 'daughter' live a lie and confuse their children.

They'd endured, and eventually the community learned to deal with it, though more than a few thought Adrian was nothing but a freak and his parents should burn in hell for being such failures as parents. Adrian also had to deal with zeroes on homework he'd done perfectly and countless detentions from teachers that had a problem with him. His mom had all but gone to war with the school board, but they'd turned a deaf ear, uncaring about the abuse against someone so 'different'.

Adrian's dad always had problems accepting that 'his little girl' was really one of the guys. But when he'd come home one day to find Adrian making out with a friend from soccer, he'd gone ballistic. He'd ranted and raved, asking why 'she' had forced them to go through so much trouble only to change 'her' mind. Adrian had fired back "I'm still a boy! I've always been a boy! I'm just gay too! It's not that complicated!" His mom had given her own support, fine with Adrian being whatever he wanted to be. But apparently it was too much for his dad to take. He'd packed a bag and left the next day.

Adrian worked here at the parlor because it was full of liberal, fringe people who were happy to accept him. He lived in a hole-in-the-wall apartment with a partner who was crazy about him, paying three times what they should but happy as clams anyway. His mother had already gotten him a mastectomy as a graduation present, and now he was saving up to start hormone therapy.

I had absolutely no problem with transgender people. Partly because I can hear that they actually think like the sex they claim to be and know it's the real deal, but mostly because, well, who am I to judge? I either have some deformity in my brain that's sensitive to foreign neural activity from over a hundred feet away, or I just plain violate the laws of physics as we understand them. An inconsistency between what's between someone's ears and their legs is a lot easier to swallow than that.

We wrap our arms around each other and kiss cheeks. I quickly filter through all the thoughts he's had since the last time I touched him. I blush as I get to how he'd decided to celebrate VE day. Adrian is the reason why I'd barely bat an eye at Grey owning genital clamps and stocks. Can you say 'Nazi role-play'?

"Thanks for being ready for me on such short notice," I say.

"I'm always ready for my favorite customer. So, what permanent sticky-note are you getting today, my muse?"

I hand over the sketch I made that morning. "Under my breasts, above my belly button." Because everything about him seemed to punch me in the gut. I was starting to get my wind back from when he'd knocked it out of me, but I still felt that if I never saw him again it would be too soon. I'd chosen a quote from one of my favorite authors and philosophers. It was an idea I took dearly to heart, and one that Grey clearly needed to learn. **"Achievement of your happiness is the only moral purpose of your life, and that happiness, not pain or mindless self-indulgence, is the proof of your moral integrity, since it is the proof and the result of your loyalty to the achievement of your values."** Translation: good people have a good time, and everyone else should get their heads out of their collective ass.

He glances it over. "Deep shit, Ana. I want deets on what prompted this. But I can handle this in about an hour. It's a good thing you don't bother with colors or go too big, or I'd have driven you bankrupt by now."

"You saying you wouldn't give me a discount? For shame, Adrian."

"Ana, darling, my sister from another mister. You're my girl, you know this, but I've got bills to pay."

I smile to let him know all is well and follow him to his own curtained-off section. I shuck off my t-shirt, not bothered by Adrian seeing my bra. He'd helped me buy it. For his birthday in April, he'd begged me to do him a favor and treat myself to a shopping spree. Since I refused to make a spectacle of myself with outerwear, we'd compromised on lingerie. He'd actually gotten a big laugh out of it. "Nun in the streets, fun in the sheets!" he'd roared as we'd left Victoria's Secret. I'd been too busy trying not to spontaneously combust from the heat of my mortification.

Adrian whistles through his teeth when he finishes washing his hands. "Damn, girl, you could use those abs as a straightedge. It's too bad you aren't packing a sausage instead of a cabbage in those panties or I'd be all over you."

I snort. "Maybe you should try and get Patrisse to do some Russian twists or something."

"Are you joking? He'd be too afraid to break a nail. I had to talk him out of spending the rent money on Shiseido skin softening gloves."

I suppress a snicker. Adrian might come off as flamboyant, but his boyfriend makes him look like Bruce Willis on steroids.

I lie back and barely wince at the stinging burn as the needle starts penetrating my skin faster than the eye can see. It's true what they say, the pain of tattoos is addicting. I might have been slightly disingenuous when I'd told Grey that I wasn't a masochist, but I was trying to dissuade him. Not that it worked.

I try to clamp the lid on the rush of rage, confusion, pain, betrayal, and most unwelcome, empathy that shoots through me at the thought of the man, but some of it must show on my face.

"Whoa! Who spit in your tea this morning?" Adrian looks up from the finishing touch on 'achievement'.

I scowl and try to hold my silence. Adrian keeps on going, professional as always, waiting for me to answer. I relent after he reaches 'of your life'. "The same guy that made me get this tattoo."

He furrows his brow. "Didn't you tell me you got these for people that touched your life? Why'd you want to celebrate this guy if he riled you up so bad you look ready to start fires?"

"Not all touches are gentle," I mutter bitterly.

Adrian pauses, his eyes probing. Then he returns to his work. "You know, there are a lot of rivers around here. Who knows what's at the bottom of them?" he says offhandedly.

I try not to laugh and mess up his 'writing'. "It's not what you think. Though Kate's idea is to use a wood chipper and turn him into fish bait."

"Enlighten me, then. And inventive, that one. Remind me to talk to Kate if Patrisse ever cheats on me."

I roll my eyes. Gorillas will perform at the Met before Patrisse would even think of being unfaithful. "You know how weird I am about touch, right?"

"No shit. Took two years before you'd let me brush your hair out of your face."

"Well, I met a guy. He flirted, I flirted back, but he set off a few alarm bells so I tried to call it off. As I was walking away I jumped into him to avoid being run over by some jerk on a cycle. I guess he thought it'd be romantic or wanted a souvenir or something, so he planted one on me."

I'm downplaying it, of course. But I'm a girl of my word, and I'll take his Dom status to my grave, even if I want to drag him along with me.

"Did you make it clear that you didn't want to pursue anything?" Adrian asks.

"Several times," I bite out.

"Sue his ass for assault," he commands in all seriousness.

I do not blush. "Well, it's possible that I chipped a tooth giving him a TKO, so he could just countersue."

Adrian stops to gawk at me, before breaking out into spirited applause. "Kickass, Ana. Very kickass. You're a paragon for women everywhere. Social Justice Warriors got nothing on you."

I cover my face with a hand. In retrospect, I could have handled that better. I don't regret making my displeasure known, but I shouldn't have left him helpless in the street. He hadn't known any better.

I still hope he catches the clap, though.

We spend the rest of the time catching up on everything else. Well, he does, I just go through the motions so he doesn't suspect I already know everything there is to tell. True to his word, he's finished before the minute hand's done a full turn. He washes me off with soap and water before taking a picture. Then he coats on a thin layer of A+D Ointment before applying a bandage with medical tape. Like I said, this place takes itself seriously.

"Leave that on for two to four hours. When you take it off, wash the area with Dial. When you shower, try not to let the spray hit it right on. I'd say avoid skin tight clothing, but why waste my breath? You all stocked up on Lubriderm and Aquaphol?"

"Yes, Adrian. This is the seventh time I've done this, you know."

He smiles and pats me on the shoulder as I pull my shirt back on. He rings me up and I hand over a sixth of all the money I have in the world. I call it my guilty pleasure for a reason. "Congrats on graduating, B-T-W. We should all go out to celebrate next week."

"I'll talk to Kate. She actually wants to do something tomorrow after the last exam."

He pouts. "Damn, I'm working. Ah, well. Tell her to have a shot on me. That girl is the shit when she's drunk."

I promise to relay the message, laughing and feeling lighter than I have all week, and leave.

* * *

I dot the period of my last sentence and drop my pen with a little moan. Finished. I stop calculating primes in my head, freeing up the brainpower to crunch through my class's thoughts. One would think I'd be the ultimate cheater, but everyone moves at a different pace and has different ideas of what's 'right' so it's too confusing. Besides, it's an essay and those are all subjective.

I glance across the hall at Kate. She's using the thought of a half-price vodka cranberry to motivate her to finish. I shake my head. I'm the teetotaler to Kate's lush. After a rather humiliating adventure on my 21st birthday that I won't go into detail about, I avoid alcohol on principle. I enjoy a glass of wine now and then, but mostly I try to keep a clear head. I'm the designated driver on almost every outing.

I look around the hall, hearing the high-strung buzz of nervous students' thoughts, and reflect that this it for me. The end of my academic career. Where will I go from here? If I had the money, I'd do grad school and try to become a counselor, but financial realities being what they were, that's not an option. I'm not willing to sell my soul into student debt taking out a loan. Shame. I could have done my thesis on the long-term effects and comorbidity of physical abuse as a child and sexual abuse in adolescence. I had an excellent case study, after all.

I note that I manage to think of him without shuddering. Guess I've grown thick enough skin over the past five days.

The nightmares are going to be a lingering issue though, I can tell. Three times, I've burst into consciousness out of terrors of starvation and cigarette burns. In the absence of a grand piano to soothe myself, I've done push-ups and squats and planks until I pass out again. But if I can learn to live with the horrifying vision of a package falling out of a plane and transforming into light and heat and horror, I can handle Grey's boyhood recollections.

The professor calls time and there's an exodus to rival Moses'. Kate and I chat about what we'll wear tonight on the ride home. Or rather, she agonizes over exactly what will manage to get her laid without making her seem like a slut, and I try to remember what isn't in the laundry basket.

"Ana, there's a package here for you," Kate mentions. I pick it up while she opens the door and makes straight for the fridge and the bottle of Dom she'd bought for this day. There's no return address, just my name written on the brown paper. Did Ray buy me something?

I suddenly have a sneaking suspicion who sent it. I resist the urge to set it on fire unopened. I should make sure at least, right?

I open it to find a box filled with five hardcover books. The cover art of the top is instantly recognizable. Atop it is a white card filled with a neat cursive I could forge if I wanted to.

"… _a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge._ "

" _Sweet lady… no victory is half so beautiful as you."_

"It's from him," I manage. Honestly, I don't know whether to cry or punch a hole in the wall.

"What?" Kate demands, grabbing the card out of my hand. She furrows her brow. "There's no name."

"It's his handwriting. Trust me."

She scowls. "Guess your right hook was too subtle for him."

I'm checking the books. "Yep, all autographed. And they're first editions. These cost a small fortune to track down, everyone's been going crazy for memorabilia since the show started last month." I lift up 'Feast for Crows' and almost have a heart attack. "Holy shit!"

"What is it?" Kate asks, looking in the box like she's expecting a bomb. She doesn't seem to get why I'm freaking out over the bound manuscript.

"Kate, this is the fifth book. This is _'A Dance with Dragons'_! I've waited six years for this. Martin only submitted the manuscript three weeks ago. This isn't supposed to come out for months!" I gingerly pick up the first page and flip it. I almost faint. "Fuck me running, this one's autographed too! I have an autographed copy of 'A Dance with Dragons'! Kate, pinch me."

She does. Quite hard.

"Ow!"

"Hate to bust your nerdgasm, Ana, but are you sure you want to keep these? I mean, this guy's why you've been a moody zombie all week."

I bite my lip, glancing between Kate and the manuscript. Books or integrity?

"It's not like I asked for these…" I demure. "He sent them without prompting. If he wants to waste money on a lost cause, that's his problem. No reason why I shouldn't enjoy it." My pride is preparing to commit seppuku in my head, wailing that she's disgraced herself and her ancestors.

Kate leers at me. "You've got a serious problem, Ana."

"Silence, nonbeliever. Your feeble uninitiated mind cannot comprehend the immensity of this blessing bestowed upon me."

That cracks her up. She passes me a flute of champagne. I huddle over the novels like Sméagol over his Ring, making sure there's no way I can spill a drop on the priceless paper.

"To the end of exams and our new life in Seattle."

"And to loaded suitors that can't take a hint."

She looks at me like I have a screw loose, but I don't care. I have books.

In very little time by Kate's standards (i.e. 45 minutes), she's ready to get sloshed. Jeans that hug her curves just so, camisole that looks painted on, and heels that weren't designed with walking in mind. I'm in a baggy sweater, mindful of my recovering stomach, and swishy skirt that could have been stolen from Lisa Kudrow's closet from 'Friends'.

It's a short walk to a nearby bar popular with the college crowd. It's already crowded. Inside, we run into Jose and Levi, a fellow survivor of the final we just took and Kate's usual photographer. Conversation picks up smoothly, Jose congratulating us on making it. His engineering 400's have a few prerequisites, so he's still got another semester to go. He buys a pitcher of margaritas for the table, and isn't too skilled at hiding his disappointment when I stick with ice water. Tequila disguised as fruit slush, one of the more diabolical ways to poison oneself invented.

I glance around the hectic space. Drunk thoughts are funny. Totally uncensored and loose and tumbling into each other. I'm almost buzzed just from listening to it all. I shift my feet as I pick up the tone of most of the thoughts. I get turned on as easily as the next girl. I'm just forbidden from acting on it. It sucks, actually.

"So what now, Ana?" Jose yells in my ear.

"Kate and I are moving to Seattle next week. Her parents already bought her a condo."

" _Dios mio_ , how the other half live." More like the 1%, but I'm not going to ruin the night with political issues. "But you'll be back for my show?"

I roll my eyes. He actually thinks if I bother to come back that means I'm open to renegotiating the terms of our relationship, as if I wouldn't do the same for any of my friends. "Kate and I both promised you, Jose. I'll invite Adrian and Patrisse too. Maybe Kate's boyfriend too if she has one by then."

"Great," he says halfheartedly. The fact I brought up so many other people lessens the impact of my reassurance. "It means a lot to me you'll be there." He pours more cactus juice in one of those funny-shaped glasses. "Sure I can't tempt you?"

"I value my brain cells, thanks." I eye the near-empty pitcher. "You all should take it easy for a bit. I'll get you a pitcher of beer."

"More drink, Ana!" Kate mandates. The amount she's drunk would have me unable to stand, but she's barely slurring. And she's already had champagne and hasn't eaten. Must be nice not to be a flyweight. She's flushed and smiling though, and Levi looks ready to sell his kidney for her attention.

I get to the bar and patiently wait for the bartender to notice me instead of the gaggle of junior girls almost busting out of their tank-tops. As I'm there, I notice a man standing at the end of the bar where it joins the wall. It's a good spot to see everyone in the room. He doesn't really fit in. He's older than the average student, and if he flexed he might tear the t-shirt he's squeezed into. I catch a whisper of his thoughts and they're stone sober. I notice that he keeps glancing at me. I tense. Am I going to have a problem with this guy? I focus and hone in so I can hear every word.

 _Principal seems to avoid heavy alcohol consumption. Should mention that in the report to Welch. Wonder what Grey's interest in her is. But I'm not paid to ask questions, just guard._

I'm struck dumb. No way. I can't believe… well, actually I can. Privacy means nothing to him, and if I'm to be his new toy, I can't be getting dinged up. I have my phone out and I'm dialing his number before I can stop to think.

"Anastasia?" he answers on the second ring. He sounds surprised.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I hiss at him. I'm not going to scream, I don't want attention. I just want him to realize how monumentally furious I am.

"Anastasia, what is it?" He has the gall to sound concerned for me. Where was that on Sunday?

"It's not enough you violate me, no, you have to have me tailed by one of your goons too?!"

"What are you talking about?" He tries to sound bemused, but he can't hide from me.

"The bodybuilder trying and failing to be inconspicuous. I know he's yours. And so help me, if you don't pull him off me in the next sixty seconds…"

"You'll what?" He fires back. He sounds so self-assured. Like I'm just a little girl throwing a tantrum. He thinks he's invincible.

I feel ice fill my veins as I prepare to destroy him. "Or I'll go to a certain law firm and tell a certain lawyer how I'm afraid for my safety. I'll tell him how a certain billionaire propositioned me for a very specific kind of sex. I'll tell him how the billionaire tried to stop me from leaving when I refused and sexually harassed me. I'll tell him that the billionaire sent me a disturbing package and had me followed. I can only imagine how the lawyer will react to the news. Or his family."

I hear his breath hitch. I know exactly how afraid he is of his secret being exposed. That's how I know he'll fold. And why I feel a twinge of guilt. I crush it. I'm not the one who hired a professional stalker.

"You wouldn't." He sounds desperate to believe himself.

"Try me."

"You promised you wouldn't," he pleads. Shit, he sounds so vulnerable. I feel like a total bitch.

"That was before you crossed the line. Your sixty seconds start now."

I hang up before I can reconsider.

* * *

 **CPOV**

I wake up to the feeling of someone shaking my shoulder. Someone, I think Taylor, is saying something in my ear. My jaw feels like a wrecking ball hit it. What the hell happened? The last thing I remember is kissing Anastasia. She'd been so sweet.

I open my eyes to see Taylor hovering over me.

"We should get back indoors, sir. This doesn't look good."

I get to my feet, feeling oddly disconnected. It's like my brain rattled around in my skull. I lean on Taylor more then I'd like to admit as he leads me back to the hotel. It's not until I'm seated in my suite and Taylor is offering me a bag of ice that I realize what happened.

"I… I think Miss Steele just knocked me out."

Taylor nodded. "Yes, sir. I saw it happen from the lobby. I would have detained her, but she seemed very upset and my primary concern was you. It took five minutes to wake you. Civilians started to take pictures. I secured their numbers and let them know they'd be compensated if they would 'forget' what they saw. Still, I think it would be wise if you had PR prepare a statement should news of this leak out."

"She… she hit me." Yes, I'm still hung up on that. I have a foot and probably a hundred pounds on her. I spar with an Olympian. I should not have gone down with one punch. Hell, why'd she hit me in the first place? Suddenly, I'm furious. How dare she?! That was probably the best kiss of her life. I pride myself on being extremely proficient at coaxing pleasure from a woman's body. "I want her punished for this!"

Taylor shakes his head. "I'd advise against that sir. She's not an employee of yours. And she's not… involved with you. You have no ground to go after her yourself. And if we involve the police in this, it'll become a case of 'he said, she said'. And if you'll pardon me saying so sir, they'd probably side with her. She does seem much more likely to be the victim than you."

I huff. "Fucking hell. So she just gets away with this?"

"I'm not sure there's anything to 'get away with' sir." I look, and I realize that his eyes are narrowed at me. "I couldn't help but see what you were doing before the incident. Did you… force yourself on her, sir?"

I gape at him. Taylor has always been "Yes sir, Mr. Grey sir." No matter what I've done, he's always just taken it with a calm face and obedience. To have him standing up to me is… weird. And I don't have the urge to shut him down like I would with a sub. If Taylor's questioning me, he probably has a good reason. But he's overreacting, right? "For god's sake Jason, I just kissed her. It's not like I shoved my hand down her panties."

"Did she say could kiss her?" Why isn't he letting this go?

"She didn't say no," I defend myself.

"That's not the same as saying 'yes'."

I hesitate. Taylor is looking at me like… like I've done something wrong. He hasn't said anything in all the years he's watched my subs limp out the door. Then again, I have their written consent before I do anything. A tendril of doubt blooms in my chest. "I… didn't really give her the chance. She just fell into my arms and she looked so damn beautiful and I was about to lose my chance forever and… I couldn't help myself."

Taylor regards me hard for a minute, then blinks and nods. I let out a breath. If I managed to alienate Taylor, I don't know what I'd do. I depend on him so much. It took me 32 interviews to find a bodyguard I could stand. Over the years, I've gotten accustomed to him. If he left, he'd leave a hole.

"What do you mean you were going to lose her, sir? Did she say she wasn't interested?"

"You could say that." I don't want to tell him that she read me like a headline. The memory of her calmly listing out all the indications of my darkest secret like they were readily apparent makes me feel uneasy.

"Begging your pardon sir, but not every woman is going to throw herself at your feet."

I laugh without humor. Taylor is being talkative today. Then again, this hasn't been a very normal day.

"She said she'd thought about me," I remember. "She just didn't think we would work out." And we probably wouldn't have, if she was dead set on not even trying to be my submissive. "So why did she get so mad when I kissed her?"

"You'll have to ask her that yourself, sir."

I scoff. "I think she made it pretty clear she doesn't want to see me again."

Taylor just shrugs, and just like that he's back to being taciturn.

I spend the rest of the day stewing, trying to puzzle out what the fuck happened. I decide to stay in the Heathman; the graduation address is next week anyway and I can commute easily enough with Charlie Tango. Besides, I want to be near the enigma that is Miss Steele.

The next day, I barge into Flynn's office. I've woken up with more questions than answers, and it's really starting to bother me. Never has someone managed to work me up like this. My physical attraction to Anastasia, strong as ever, is now mixed with burning curiosity and confusion. Plus, a small, vindictive part of me wants to get her back tenfold for clocking me. Call me juvenile, but I just can't stand the fact that I got beat up by a girl.

I rant and rave for twenty minutes, telling him every detail from me entering the hardware store to my blackout, then complaining about all the strange, uncomfortable troubling thoughts that kept running through my head.

Flynn took it all in. Then he starts asking me about the stupidest things. "You say that she wears very concealing clothing?"

"What the fuck does that have to do with anything?!"

"Humor me, Christian."

"Yes, she does," I bite out.

"And she bows instead of shaking hands, even though she wears gloves?"

"Yeah, it's weird, but so what?"

"And she reacted violently to your unexpected kiss, which I want to come back to by the way."

"Get to the fucking point, Flynn!"

He sighed and looked at me warily. "Christian… have you considered the possibility that she's like you?"

"What do you mean, 'like me'? I told you that she told me outright she didn't want to sub for me! And aren't you going to address how fucking odd it is that she found that out?"

"Christian!" I pause. Flynn is practically glaring at me. I've never seen him so grave. "Listen to what I'm trying to tell you. Based on everything you've told me… I believe Miss Steele suffers from haphephobia."

That floored me. Literally. I fell on my ass onto the floor.

"Oh my god." I review every memory I have of her. How she wouldn't let me help her up. How she ducked away from that jerkoff in the store. How she tilted her body so she wouldn't even brush against passerby on the sidewalk. "Oh my god, you're right. That explains everything." I put my head in my hands. "No wonder she punched me. I'd do the same if someone touched me. Fuck, what have I done?"

It was in that moment that Anastasia Steele became a real person to me. I mean, I knew she was living and breathing and had feelings and shit. But in my own little world, she'd just been an object of lust, of admiration, a test of my seduction skills. I hadn't stopped to think of what would happen in her life in regards to me, just focused on what she could provide for me. But learning that we shared the same pain, the same fear, gave her substance, depth, made her a player instead of a pawn.

And suddenly I felt like the shittiest bastard in the world. I'd hurt her. My pain was nothing, a bruise that would heal soon enough and some gawking that my money could shut up no problem. Who knew what kind of emotional turmoil I'd stirred up with my impulsive kiss?

And I knew right then that I had to make it up to her. More, I had to protect her. She was vulnerable in a way no one but I could understand. I'd screwed up, and I'd repay her if it was the last thing I did. It owed her nothing less. But I had to wonder, why did she have it? Was she born with it? I heard of cases like that. Or is it for the same reason as me? The thought of anyone laying a hand on such a brilliant, complex, feisty but oh so fragile creature as Anastasia has me ready to tear the one responsible apart with my bare hands.

I look up at Flynn. "How do I make this right?" I ask, and I'm really asking. I'm great at reading people, but not with really dealing with them. Emotions, social cues, how to comfort, I'm clueless. Tell me to fix a bankrupt company and I'll do it blindfolded, but I have no idea how to fix this. I have no experience. I've never been close enough to anyone to learn all this shit.

Huh. So that's what she meant when she said I was lonely. Another thing she picked up with those eyes that saw everything.

Flynn offers an encouraging smile. "First, give her some space. Let her cool off. Don't nag and harangue her like you usually do with people." I don't even care that I was probably just insulted. I'm hanging on every word. "Next would be to send a peace offering. Get her something she likes, something that lets her know you're really sorry. It could be a note, it could be flowers, just make sure it's genuine. And I'd avoid jewelry. You don't want to give her the impression you're trying to buy her. Give her a few days after that and if she doesn't call you, try calling her. But you should know, Christian, that if she's determined to hate you for this, there's really nothing you can do."

I smirk at that. I may not be good at this, but I'm Christian Grey. I don't stop until I win. I remember Anastasia mentioning reading the Game of Thrones books. Maybe there's something there. "Okay. I'll try that. And don't bother badgering me about the kiss. That was a dick move. I shouldn't have done anything after she said she didn't want to be with me. It was selfish and an egregious lapse of control, and it won't happen again."

"I'm glad you can admit you did something wrong. That's some real progress, Christian."

I try not to scoff. The sad part is that he isn't kidding. "What about her supernatural observational skills? Should I worry about that? You don't think that's weird? I mean, how the hell did she do that?"

Flynn shrugged. "How come some people can play 'Flight of the Bumblebee' in under a minute and others can barely manage 'Hot Cross Buns'? How come some people can make drawings as accurate as photographs and others use stick figures? Each of us has our own strengths and weaknesses, Christian. In Miss Steele's case, her biggest strength seems to be extraordinary perception. It's an unusual talent, I'll agree, but nothing to cause undue stress. I'd just avoid lying to her, since it seems likely she'd figure it out."

I nod, and walk out. My mind's made up on what to do, and I don't want to waste time rehashing the same old shit. I fly back to Portland, my mind churning all the while. By the time I land, I've got a plan.

The first thing I do is assign a CPO to Miss Steele. She might have quite the right arm, but she shouldn't have to use it. I don't want there to be the slightest chance she can get hurt in a fight. She's had enough pain. Besides, anyone that would hit a sweet thing like her deserves to be roughed up by a pro.

Next, I call Barney. He's normally my IT manager, but he's also good at tracking down rare information and items. Plus, he's a total geek. I tell him to find me the ultimate gift for a George R. R. Martin fan and have it to me by Friday. I ignore his stuttering questions of 'why' and hang up. I don't have to explain myself to my staff. I'm the captain of the ship, if I say 'jump' they say 'how high?' Except for Ros, whose job is basically to second guess me when I get too frustrated and stuck in a rut to see the whole picture.

I spend the week working out of my room, waiting for all my machinations to fall into place. I'm all for delayed gratification, but at the same time I'm not the most patient guy. I fucking hate having to wait. But the issue of Miss Steele is not something that can be fixed with a snap. When I get too worked up with worry, I read the first book in the ASOIF series. I think I glanced at them once, then gave up because it was too depressing and slow. But now that I know Anastasia likes it, I find myself not minding that so much and getting drawn into the intrigue and struggles of the characters.

For some reason, Arya reminds me a lot of Anastasia. With maybe a little Varys and Daenerys thrown in.

Taylor recommends a Luke Sawyer for Miss Steele's security. He's an old acquaintance and recently retired Marine Security Guard. I'd rather have a female so there's no chance the fucker will be drawn in by her as I have, but after seeing his laundry list of qualifications, I agree.

He starts Wednesday, and I'm not too surprised to learn that Anastasia went to a gun range. With her vulnerability, she must like having every assurance she can. I try to suppress my instinctive disapproval. She's not my sub, and I'm thin enough ice as it is. I have no right to tell her what to do, let alone to throw her gun into the Pacific.

I'm more surprised to find out that she went to a tattoo parlor the next day. I suspected that the clothing was more armor than a reflection of her actual taste, but she still seemed too reserved to go for that kind of thing. Plus, with her aversion to touch, getting a tattoo seems oddly… intimate. I almost blow my top when I find out that the guy that worked on her is apparently very familiar with her. Only the memory of her saying that she didn't have a boyfriend keeps me from losing it. Of course, she could have been lying, but I don't think that's in her character. She'd keep silent or avoid the subject, but I don't think she'd lie to my face. She was too frank for that.

Still, I call up Welch to find out everything about this man that apparently has the privilege of being able to touch Anastasia. He's less than amused that all he has to go on is "bald tattooed prick at the parlor in Longview".

On Friday, I get the package from Barney. He mentions that it cost a little over $100k to acquire everything, but I don't even blink. I'll make that back in an hour. I take a card, write out the two quotes that had reminded me most of her, and have the gift messengered to her apartment. That should get rid of any lingering animosity. Always works with Mia.

It's getting late when I get a knock on my door. I get up, expecting something complimentary from room service or perhaps the manager checking up on my experience, and instead I'm met with the smiling face of my brother. "Yo, little bro. You moving to Portland or something? I showed up at Escala and Gail said you'd been down here all week."

I frown, but inside a little part of me perks up. After a brief bout of jealousy when I'd first arrived under Grace and Carrick's roof, Elliot had been the best brother a guy like me could ask for. We were total opposites, but he always managed to cheer me up. "What do you want, Elliot? A loan? A rock to hide under from the father of the girl you managed to knock up?"

"Tease all you want, little brother, but I know you're just jealous you don't have game like I do. I don't even remember how many sweet babes I'm juggling right now." I roll my eyes and let him in. Elliot talks a big game, and he's probably slept with every single girl in Seattle, but he's no cheater. Even if it's only for a week, he'll only sleep with one girl at a time (or two if he's feeling frisky and they're okay with it). "And don't even joke about money, dude. I might not sleep on a bed of bullion, but Grey Construction is booming and you know it."

I smile. I've always admired Elliot's independence. I'd actually taken a page from his book with starting my own company without help from our parents. Unlike a bunch of guys raised with silver spoons in their mouths, Elliot likes to work with his hands and he's not afraid to get dirty. He's also charming and charismatic so that you can't help but like him. He's climbed his way to being the head of the best construction firm in Washington State, all without any assistance or hype from my name.

"So why _are_ you here, Elliot?" I ask once he's made himself at home in one of the chairs. I might have been here a week, but the suite barely shows any sign of my presence. Just my laptop plugged on the table and a bag slid under the bed. Elliot sits in the chair like he lost his virginity in it, so relaxed it's indecent.

"Because I haven't seen you since Easter weekend and I thought it was time to remind you that you're the same as us mere mortals and need a guys' night out every once in a while. Come on man, let's go out and get drunk! Take advantage of Oregon's loophole about quantities, find some weed, and blaze it up! Maybe even pick up a girl so you can finally lose that pesky virginity of yours. Unless you want to man up to the fact you bat for the other team, then we can find a gay club. I don't mind, chicks always let their guards down in those places."

I let out a long-suffering sigh. I'm about to shoot him down when I hear my phone ring. I glance at the screen and am astonished when I see it's Miss Steele of all people. I answer right away, not even caring that Elliot can hear me.

"Anastasia?" I answer, wondering what prompted this. Did she like the books that much?

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I've always marveled at girls' ability to shout at whisper volume. They can have whole screaming matches and nobody would be any the wiser. My volume is near maxed out and I still have to strain to hear her. Though that might have to do with the blaring music in the background.

"Anastasia, what is it?" Is something wrong? Is this some kind of delayed reaction to Sunday and she just remembered she had my number?

"It's not enough you violate me, no, you have to have me tailed by one of your goons too?!"

I wince when I hear her use the word 'violate'. Fuck, she's really taken it hard. Then the rest of the words process and I feel my stomach drop. How did she know? Well, this is Anastasia we're talking about. If she could work out I was a Dom from less than an hour of total conversation, it probably isn't that hard to make a bodyguard.

Still, I try to play clueless. I might be able to play this off. I don't want her to have more fuel for the fire of rage she must be nursing about now. "What are you talking about?"

I can practically feel her eyes reach laser intensity. Maybe I should duck away from the window. "The bodybuilder trying and failing to be inconspicuous. I know he's yours. And so help me, if you don't pull him off me in the next sixty seconds…"

"You'll what?" I cut her off. I feel bad about what I did, but her trying to threaten me is out of line. It's not like she has anything on me.

God, I am really a dumbass sometimes.

I feel like half my blood simply vanishes as she calmly describes how she'll go to Carrick. Fuck, fuck, FUCK! This cannot be happening. Somehow, even though I've been thinking about nothing but the weekend, it never occurred to me that she could blackmail me. It just didn't seem to be in her. I'd… trusted her.

"You wouldn't" I try to call her bluff. Because she has to be bluffing. My life is over if she isn't.

"Try me." I know that tone. I've used it myself when it came to the point of no return in a deal.

"You promised you wouldn't," I beg. I know Elliot is staring, but I don't care. If I don't stop her, he'll learn everything and then he'll drop me like the disgusting piece of shit I am.

"That was before you crossed the line. Your sixty seconds start now."

The line goes dead.

I waste twenty of my precious seconds just staring at the phone, unable to process what just happened. I've never been in this position, completely powerless. Even with Elena, I came to her looking to be debased. The unofficial king of Seattle, a titan of industry, and I'm about to have my knees cut out from under me by a five foot and change college student.

… Why is that so _hot_?

I must be even more twisted than I thought.

Then I'm punching in the speed dial for Sawyer. He picks up promptly. "Where are you?" I demand, clutching the power of being the boss like a child would a stuffed animal.

"A bar in Haven Heights, sir." He rattles off the address. "Miss Steele and Miss Kavanagh are drinking with two men. No obvious threats, though the crowd is getting more agitated as the night goes on."

"Get out of there, you're blown. I'm on my way."

"Sir?" he asks, sounding shocked.

"That call she just made? I assume you saw that? That was her telling me off for hiring you. You might want to work on that 'covert' part in your job description." I hang up on him.

"Christian, what the hell is going on?" Elliot looks bewildered. He's never seen me show so much emotion since I was in middle school.

"You still want to go get a drink?" I ask.

His brows furrow, clearly wondering at the non sequitur. "Sure?" he says hesitantly.

"Great. I know just the place." He can deal with Miss Kavanagh while I confront Anastasia. About what, I'm not quite sure, I just know I have to see her in person.

We're halfway there when Elliot cracks. "You going to tell me what the hell that call was about, Christian?"

I sigh but don't look away from the GPS on the dashboard. "Mild dispute with… a potential client. I'm running damage control. You're going to chat up her friend while I handle her. Katherine Kavanagh, natural blond, about 5'8, just your type."

"Client? But we're headed for the college area…" I hear him pause and I don't have to look to see his eyes are wide at me. "Wait a minute. Is this… is this about a _girl_?"

I exhale. "Don't start, Elliot. Just do your thing with Kavanagh."

"Sure, sure." And now he's got a shit-eating grin. I slump my shoulders. I love him, and I'm pretty sure he loves me for some reason, but he's never going to let me hear the end of this.

We reach the bar and Elliot zips right in, though not without one last cheeky grin. I survey the people outside, looking to see if maybe Anastasia went to get some fresh air. Is she drunk? She'd sounded coherent enough on the phone. But what if she grabbed some liquid courage after dealing with me? I remember Sawyer mentioning two men. Is one of them the Rodriguez kid?

Speak of the devil, I spot him. And he's having some kind of heated debate with Anastasia. How she can look at him, so much bigger and stronger and clearly not in possession of his full faculties, without a drop of fear scares the hell out of me. Is she so naïve that she doesn't see the threat? Or so arrogant that she doesn't think it applies to her? I just hadn't seen the hit coming, she wasn't Xena or something.

I rush through the crowd, trying to reach her before the kid does something that will force me to do something that might land me in court. I catch the tail end of their argument as I near.

"Don't make me do this, Jose."

"Please, Ana, _cariño_ , just one kiss." He reaches out a hand for her face.

I push some puking asshole out of the way trying to get there in time to punch the fucker's nose in before he can lay one finger on her.

I needn't have bothered.

If I'd blinked, I would have missed it. She grabbed his hand and did something that brought him to his knees. Then she grabbed his shoulder and pushed him down so he was face-down on the pavement, his arm held up and out at an angle that I knew would allow her to break it with minimal effort.

Huh. Not Xena, but maybe Yu Shu Lien.

Miss Steele speaks in that glacial tone she'd used when I'd held the door open in my office. "I am saying this for the last time, Jose. You and I are _not_ happening. Force the issue again, and you won't even have me as a friend. _¿Comprende?_ "

I'm not sure if he even heard her over his whimpering, but he answers " _¡Si, si!_ " She lets him go and he staggers to his feet. He gives her a look like he's never seen her before, then turns and wanders off into the bar. He walks right past me without seeing me. Looks like I'm not needed.

Anastasia is glaring at me. She doesn't seem the least bit surprised to see me. "When I told you to get rid of your goon, I didn't mean replace him with yourself. Get the fuck away from me, Grey."

I hold up my hands, trying to show I come in peace. I fucked up, I'm mature enough to realize that (when it's spoon-fed to me by my psychiatrist), and I need to make it right. I can't just leave it like this now that I now we're alike. "I was worried. You sounded very upset on the phone."

"And you thought having to see you in the flesh after you trampled over my peace of mind with that oral assault would make me feel at ease?"

I hide my wince. "I wanted to apologize for that. I realize now how… discomforting that must have been."

"No you don't. Take my word for it."

I swallow. There's a shadow in those blazing eyes. "Oh, I think I do."

She rolls her eyes, and I feel my palm start to tingle. Fuck, not the time or place. "I don't care about your shit, Grey. I care about my own. And every second I have to endure your presence is stirring it up."

I shuffle my feet. Wow, I am really bad at this atonement thing. But what does she expect me to do, grovel on the ground? "I want to make it up to you, if I may. Clear the air, as it were."

" _Prendre une longue marche dévoilé une courte falaise_."

I feel my balls ache at the sound of another language coming out of those delicious lips in that melodic voice. Then they register in my head. _Take a long walk off a short cliff_. Ouch.

" _Je parle français, vous savez._ " _I speak French, you know._

" _Bien. Donc, vous me comprenez. Vas te faire encule. Long et dur et latéralement. Vous dépravé porc obscène._ " _Good. So you understand me. Fuck you. Long and hard and sideways. You depraved obscene pig._

I don't know to be pissed at her vitriol or impressed at her creativity. "Look, I'm trying to repent here."

"I deny you repentance. Live with your sins. And leave before I make an appointment with Schwarz, Grey, and LeBlanc."

I feel my guts twist at the reminder of how easily she can ruin me. But I try one last time. "Anastasia, I couldn't live with myself knowing I left this unresolved. Meet me halfway here. I just want to talk." The word burns and feels odd, but I force it out. "Please."

She regards me for an endless moment. I hold my breath. This is it. Now or never. If she shoots me down now, I'll have to bear the knowledge I'd damaged someone with the same damage as me and couldn't fix it.

She blows out an explosive breath. "If I say yes, will you get out of my face for the night?"

I fight the impulse to whoop. I've still got a long way to go, but it's the first step. "You have my word."

"I want it to be in public. During the daytime. With witnesses."

I try not to grimace. A long, _long_ way to go. My mind spits up the fact that she's into tea. "The Heathman does a lovely service every day at two."

"Tomorrow. I'll drive myself." With that, she storms past me and back into the bar.

I stand there like an idiot, wondering if I'd actually managed to pull that off. Less than a minute later, Miss Steele emerges from the club, now with a shoulder bag and the trench coat she wore to the interview.

She eyes me like a slug. "You can leave now."

"How are you getting home?" I ask. I need to know she'll make it safe, now that she doesn't have Sawyer.

"It's a ten minute walk."

"Alone?" I demand. This is a pretty good neighborhood, but you never know. "I cannot, as a gentleman, leave you unaccompanied. Let me see you to her door."

She reaches into her bag and pulls out a fucking _baton_. It extends with a sharp click and she brings it up to rest under my chin, right on the yellowing spot where her fist had crashed into me.

"Don't push your luck, Grey," she snarls. I check to make sure she hasn't sprouted vampire fangs.

Why does fear for my life seem to be intertwined with my sex drive? I'm throbbing, and she seems ready to put me in the hospital. I back up, eyes wide, hoping that she doesn't notice the tent I'm pitching.

She turns and walks away, collapsing the space-saving blunt instrument and sliding it into her bag without missing a beat. I watch her disappear into the darkness, wondering if there will ever come a time when Anastasia Steele doesn't surprise me.

* * *

 **I'm sorry to say that this is probably the last 'fast' update. The semester is starting up again and I'm seriously behind schedule on my other fandom's stories and I don't want them to mutiny. I hope you all enjoyed this. And all translations come via Google, so forgive me if I made some unforgivable grammatical mistake or improper noun choice.**

 **'Adrian' is based off a real gay FTM that I had the pleasure of meeting in Costa Rica while I was doing some eco-tourism. He now works as 'Rowdy Rory' at a burlesque in Austin, TX. On the off chance that he's reading this, HI! REMEMBER ME! I STEPPED ON YOUR FOOT WHEN WE HAD THAT SALSA DANCE LESSON! I STILL FOLLOW YOU ON FACEBOOK! I swear, I'm not trying to wave a flag or anything, what with this and the whole 9/11 rant last chapter. It just bugs me how many people in this world are misunderstood and made to suffer for it because they don't fit the definition of 'normal' shoved down our throats by the conservative assholes in power. Gender identity, gender expression, sexual orientation, and physical sex are all independent of each other. An asexual, butch genderqueer intersex is as much of a human being as a hetero, regular cisgender male. If you can't handle those kind of people as characters in a story, then I wish you luck surviving the real world without coming off as an asshole.**

 **Also, Patrisse, Adrian's boyfriend, will be heavily influenced by the larger-than-life wonder that is Devin, as told to us by the incomparable Mrs. Fraser. I hope A.) that she (or he or it, whatever) is reading this and likes it and B.) doesn't mind me borrowing my favorite character from Slow and Steady.**

 **Standard requests: Review. Favorite. Follow.**

 **And, since it should be obvious by now that any sex between Ana and Christian is** _ **far**_ **off into the distance, here's a little something to tide you all over:**

 **Omake:**

 **KPOV**

I finish off the last of the margaritas Jose sprung for, enjoying the buzz of alcohol, relief, and general Friday night energy in the atmosphere.

Levi makes some comment next to me and I giggle accordingly. I came here looking to get fucked, and he's not too bad. He's my fallback though, I'm still holding out for better pickings. That might sound shallow, but it's just the truth.

As if to answer my prayers, a Greek god in human form appears from the ground and seems to home in on me. I eye him up and down as he walks over. Curly blond hair that's just begging for my hands to run through it, built like a linebacker, and eyes looking for a good time without too much fuss. He's older than me, maybe just over thirty, but I don't mind. He's still hot, and he's probably got a bit of experience under his belt. It's like someone found my checklist for the perfect man and ticked every item off. There is a God.

"Hey, baby. What's a girl like you doing in a dump like this?" He give me a Colgate smile that has my thong ready to evaporate.

"Looking to let off a little steam," I purr. Levi's probably pouting, but I don't turn to look.

"Maybe I can help with that," he grins, reaching out to brush a finger over the back of my hand laid on the table. I shiver. Levi's speechless.

"So what do I call you?" I ask, crossing my legs under the table to hide the wet spot that's surely already forming.

"Grey. Elliot Grey," he says in a cheesy voice that is just so adorable.

I fall from my little cloud like an anvil. "Any relation to Christian?" I challenge.

The enemy by association grimaces in a comically overdone way. In an instant he's hunched his shoulders and softened his eyes, shifting from sex god to kicked puppy. I try not to coo. "Uh-oh. What's my idiot brother done now?"

Well, he didn't automatically take the dick's side, so I'll give him a chance. "He made my best friend cry."

He drops his jaw. This is clearly news to him. "Really?" He glances uncertainly at the door, and I have the sudden intuition that the bastard himself is outside. Ana's also outside. With Jose. Damn, that could get ugly. But I'm not too worried for my pint-sized firecracker. She's Jet Li with boobs and an atrocious closet. "Did she do it in front of him? Because he seems to think he has a chance and I didn't think he was _that_ clueless."

"Well, she knocked his clock out, so maybe his memory's hazy."

Grey #2 gapes at me. "She did that?! I thought that bruise was from kickboxing!" He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. It messes it up in a most appealing way. "Well, not to excuse him, but you might want to cut him some slack. This might be his first time trying to, you know, flirt. I thought he was gay, actually, but I guess it's the 'virgin' theory."

I try not to scoff. No way any man as hot as Christian Grey could be a virgin in his late twenties, no matter how big an asshole he is. On cue, I feel my inner Ana look up from a book and tilt her half-moon specs at me. _Unfair double standard, Katherine. Long legs and boobs doesn't make a slut. It goes both ways, you know._

"Let me make up for my brother's terrible manners. Can I get you a drink?"

I rake my eyes over him again. He _is_ yummy. And it _is_ an adoptive relationship. "Sure. Surprise me. I like a man who can guess a girl's favorite drink." It's a test, and maybe an unfair one, but if he passes then Ana is definitely making breakfast for three tomorrow.

He's out of sight when Levi finally manages to recuperate. "What the hell, Kate?"

I shrug and don't look at him. It's his own fault for getting his hopes up. "We're on the paper together, Levi. It'd be weird." I don't bring up the fact that as of Monday, neither of us are officially part of it anymore.

He sneers at me, but he doesn't have the guts to call me a slut. He'd be in for a world of hurt if he did. Ana's taught me a few self-defense moves. He gets up and leaves. Good riddance.

Ana shows up before Elliot gets back. "Ana! You okay? Did Grey do anything again?"

She reached up to pinch her nose. "Nothing I can't handle. I'm leaving now." She shrugs on her coat and purse, then gives me a teasing smile. "Have fun with Elliot." Seriously, _how_ does she do that? She turns and walks away with that dancer's grace that would be so much more eye-catching with heels.

The blond hunk comes back a minute later. "Bay Breeze for the lady. Light, playful, but with a nice kick. Do I pass?"

I grin and scooch over so he can sit. "So, what do you do when you're not cleaning up your brother's mess?"

He grins so wide that my heart cartwheels.

We talk for what feels like hours, but it passes so quickly. It's so easy, effortless. We have so much in common. It's like we're picking up where we left off instead of just meeting. He invites me to dance, and _oh my god_. The man can move. He uses his hips as well as I do, and his big hands seem to cover my entire back as he holds me close.

We lean against each other as we stumble back to my place, tripping and laughing like every damn drunk couple you see in the movies. It takes me a couple tries to open the door, batting away his wandering hands with a giggle. I'd like to say we made it all the way to my room before we started mauling each other, but I'm sure at least one item of clothing didn't make it across the threshold. Ana won't mind, she never does.

I'm naked first, and I writhe appreciatively under him as he suckles my neck and plays with my breasts. His calloused fingers mold themselves to my mounds in ways that have me moaning like a ten-cent whore. But I want to see what he's hiding under the designer polo and khakis, so I push him off me and decree "Clothes. Off."

He smiles in a way that cranks my horniness up to 11 and starts to pull up his shirt in my own personal striptease. I feel my mouth and other parts water as he slowly reveals inch after inch of rippling perfection. Again, my wishlist is answered on every point. Adonis belt: check. Washboard abs: check. Broad, tight shoulders: check. Bulging pecs: check, check. He even has those little raised rectangles under his armpits along his ribcage. What are those called, exactly? Eh, who cares? They're hot as all hell and I want to trace them with my tongue.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a condom, but I don't want anything between us. "Never mind that."

His brows draw together. "You sure? I don't want you doing anything you're not comfortable with. Plus, I know I'm getting up there, but I don't want to be a dad quite yet."

Such a gentleman. I smile reassuringly. "I'm on the pill, it's all good."

"That mean I can come inside you?"

I give him my sauciest smile. "If you make it worth my while."

His face lights up like a kid told he got a free pass to Disney World. So fucking cute. Then he gets a smug little smirk and shucks off his pants, stepping out of them as they reach the floor and walking until he's at the edge of my bed.

 _Holy. Fucking. Shit._

He has, by far, the biggest wang I've ever seen. It's not too long, maybe seven inches give or take, but _god_ is he thick! It's like a bear can. It's not ugly and bulging with veins, except for that one long one that runs up the underside. The head is red and twitching, eager to plunge into my sopping depths.

"You better be planning to prep me for that monster, or the door can kiss your ass on the way out."

He cocks his head with that damn grin of his, his eyes gleaming with wicked desire. "My pleasure, baby." Then he sinks to his knees and dives into my pussy face-first.

"OH, YEAH!" I groan in ecstasy. Hopefully Ana wore her earplugs, because I'm not wasting the energy to keep quiet. Not when that dancing tongue and questing fingers and stubbly lips are wreaking havoc on my pleasure centers. Before I know it, he has four in, stretching me wider than I've ever been before, and he's nibbling just shy of too hard on my clit. I start to see spots and clutch that soft, sensual hair tighter against me as I lose it.

I vaguely feel it when he brushes my hands aside and maneuvers me further up the bed. I _definitely_ feel it when he thrusts that huge tube of man-meat in as deep as it can go, my walls still spasming around him.

"Oh, god!" I whine, taken to a whole other level. I've never felt so full, so feminine. He's spreading me to the breaking point, and it hurts so _good_! He feels so right there, like a key sliding into lock.

"Call me Elliot," he quips, smile tight as he tries to think through the feeling of my hot, slick tunnel trying to squeeze him to death. Cocky sumbitch. But then he starts to move and I couldn't give a flying fuck. He deserves to be cocky.

He rocks into me in a steady rhythm, in and out, in and out, doing a little roll thing with his hips every now and then that rubs his trimmed bush against my button and has me seeing stars. Our lips seek each other and we practically rape each other's mouths, our tongues dueling back and forth in time to our mutual thrusts.

A pleasantly long while later, he starts to pick up his rhythm. "Tell me you're close, baby! I'm so close. Can you feel my balls pulling up? That's because I'm about to blow and coat you inside and out and make you _mine_."

Dirty talk. It sounds ridiculous in regular conversation, but in the throes of passion it's fucking Shakespeare. "I'm close too, babe. Just… about…" He does that roll thing again and I squeak. "THAT! KEEP! DOING! THAT!" I shout my encouragement.

He gets even faster and harder, his face almost demented in concentration, and I can feel the coil in my core getting tighter… tighter… till I finally snap and drag him with me into nirvana.

I float in a daze for a priceless moment. Then I come down and feel Elliot lying atop me, holding up just enough of his weight with his big arms so I'm not squished. His head is resting on my shoulder, his breath coming out and tickling my oversensitive neck.

"Damn," he finally huffs. "I don't know about you, but that's going into my top ten. You're something else, Kate."

"The feeling's mutual, El." I wiggle my hips, feeling his, uh, _manly essence_ leak out. "Come on. We should change the sheets before we go to sleep."

He pulls back and give me a look that says 'are you fucking kidding me?' "Who said anything about sleep, baby?"

I try to puzzle that out until I realize one very important fact: _he's still hard_. As he flips me over and slides his rough hands over my hips, only one thought rolls through my head.

 _I'm keeping this one_.


	4. Goodbye

**I HATE having to write one of these. In fact, the last time I had to, I was so ashamed I abandoned my old profile and made a new one so my new stories wouldn't be haunted by those that resented my laziness. Still, it is far kinder than just leaving you all hanging forever, hoping that SOMEDAY an update will come.**

 **I will not be continuing this fic. It was written during a low period as a way to pass time and to distract me from some bad stuff in my life. Now that I'm in a better place, I find I'm just not interested in pursuing it further. So sorry, but that's the truth.**

 **As a consolation, I am posting all the notes I jotted down for this fic, so that someone could adopt it or make their own version.**

 **Sorry, darlings. But this is the end of Fifty Shades of Perception.**

* * *

Notes:

Tense meeting at tea, Ana reads Taylor. "Ex-military, obviously. You wouldn't have been hired if you weren't intelligent and highly qualified, and an Ivy Leaguer would have a natural bias towards prestige and tradition. So I'm guessing… West Point? Given your age, you got out early, but you're competent, hardworking… a retired 1st Lieutenant. Judging by your accent, you were raised in Queens with at least one first generation Italian in the house. A natural protector, happy not to be in charge or you'd be Head of Security instead of personal detail, so the second boy of at least three children. There's no tan line, but the skin is still worn smooth, therefore you've been divorced at least six months. And I'd recognize those worry lines around the eyes anywhere: you're a dad. And finally, shot in the dark, but given how dry and smooth your cheeks are, I'm guessing you skydive in your free time." Christian hires her to be Tim Roth in Lie to Me.

Ana has to think about it, they exchange old-fashioned letters over the week, deals with Jose in interim. Ana, Kate, Elliot, Adrian and Patrisse go to karaoke bar on Wednesday, night before graduation. Ana talks Kate into doing "S&M", Ana uses piano skills inherited from Christian and natural voice to slay "Concrete Angel", make Christian cry. Ana agrees to do it. Graduation, Christian talks Ana into going to Seattle early, give Kate and Elliot free day and will send service to help move that Saturday. And of course he makes her stay in the apartment.

Friday, the 27th, meet with Ros to hammer out her position, "smoker, left-handed, lesbian." Ana has culture shock at how much responsibility and ergo money Christian gives. "Let me get this straight. You're going to give me a seven-figure salary, more packages than a UPS store at Christmas, and near total autonomy… in exchange for my first impression of people?" Includes Sawyer. Ana decides that what Christian needs most is a friend, and promises to fulfill that role, and handle the good AND bad baggage of being near him. Shopping trip to Neiman Marcus and Caroline Acton, Ana pushes for masculine wear, Christian pushes for a dress, Ana shoots back "There's enough of a stigma against women in business as it is. Let's not add 'visible tattoos' to the roadblocks against me." "Tattoos? Plural?" "All over my body."

Saturday spent seeing the sights, break the ice, then stop by apartment to move in. Christian is far too unhappy that she's not staying at his place anymore. Sunday, staff meeting to introduce Ana, she gives her impressions on Barney "he could probably hack the pentagon while playing Minecraft if he wanted, so at all costs keep him from getting bored" Welch "old wolf happy to find a pack,", head of HR is pregnant, Accounting is high, most others fine. Her biggest issues are with Christian himself. "Is this what you usually do? Issue impossible, contradictory demands, shoot down resistance with character assassination and browbeating, and ignore any and all protest until they just give up and do things your way? If so, I'm surprised no one's tried to set you on fire yet. Or is that the reason for all the security?" Ana points out that it's better in the long run for him to be a leader rather than a boss. Family dinner that night, of course she's invited, flinches away from Mia, but hugs Grace by end of the night.

 **Micah 7:18 "Who is a God like you, who pardons sin and forgives the transgression  
of the remnant of his inheritance? You do not stay angry forever but delight to show mercy. **Left shoulder

Monday starts with a bang, training with Claude and spar between Christian and Ana. At Grey House, Ana listens in on conference call to Japan, calls out translator for being a plant, takes over. Tuesday the 31st, Elena drops by and assumes Ana is sub, "Oh, I'm not his sub. I just work here." They have dinner that night, Ana makes it clear that it's his business, though she obviously hates the bitch. Clara calls for money on Wednesday, Ana gets emotional, explains situation to Christian. Invited to 'tea' Thursday night (play date), Leila breaks in, Ana tackles her and disarms her, Ana traumatized by head butt. Drive her to hospital, nip it in the bud, Ana reminded of all the reasons NOT to be with Christian, things turn frosty between them.

 **Mark Twain "Never allow someone to be your priority while allowing yourself to be their option."** Across feet.

Jose's gallery on June 9th, Grey goes all caveman and buys all the photos, Ana smh. Coping Together on the 11th, Ana teases/accompanies Christian, Jack Hyde there due to SIP purchase and determination to see Blue Bird, makes a move on Ana, gets skin contact, Ana goes ballistic beating him into the ground. Christian comforts her and resolves to destroy him, begin of revenge plot, this time specifically aimed at both. "If you'd met a real monster Christian, you wouldn't call yourself one." Ana and Christian kiss.

 **Nietzsche "When you gaze long** **into** **an** **abyss** **the** **abyss** **also gazes** **into** **you."** Hip where he touched her.

On 12th, Grey invites family out on boat, plus Kate and Ana. Family amazed he's doing something so social. Ana wears a beach dress so plan to see skin is foiled.

Monday the 13th, Elena shows up with 'blackmail' story. Ana sees through it. Begins strategizing how to break her hold on him. Ethan comes on the 14th. Grey has therapy on 16th, reveals he's caught the 'feelings'. Charlie Tango doesn't happen on 17th since Hyde wants to get both of them at once. Birthday party on 18th, Elena is invited, Grey actually hates how buddy-buddy she's being with his mom and gets drunk to deal with it. Ana stays late and takes him to bed, he drunkenly rapes her, she takes cold shower for hours before enacting run-away protocol.

Get all her stored up cash. Drive to airport, buy ticket with credit card, go into bathroom, cut off hair put on hat and change clothes. Cab from airport to bus station, avoid cameras, another cab to train. Go to Chicago, come off the train with a hijab. Chicago to DC. Back home, everyone freaking out. Christian blacked out, no memory but 'clues' (blood on his dick). Dyed blonde, Ana calls Kate from burner. Go on speakerphone, explain echo by looking at houses with Elliot. "When running from a billionaire, best to be thorough… He raped me." "I'm going to kill him." "He was drunk, I didn't fight him off." "Ana, don't make excuses for him. He hurt you so bad you left the city! Just come back and we'll make him pay, okay?" "That's not why I ran. I ran because I'm starting to fall for him. And we can never be together. So best I leave now while we're both still mostly intact." "Ana… you can work things out. It's only been a month since he met you and he's practically a different person. Just give it time." "Time can't fix this. He doesn't know how to love, Kate. What's worse, he doesn't think he can. So he'd just take and take and _take_ until I had nothing left to give, caring just enough to feel horrible to see me wasting away, and in the end we'd destroy each other. That's what happened to the last _fifteen_ girls. He's like crack. Make you feel good, but ends up killing you. Damn Shakespeare. There's a line from Romeo and Juliet that fits us perfectly. 'These violent delights have violent ends/ And in their triumph die, like fire and powder. Which as they kiss, consume.'" "I'm going to kill him." "Don't. It's not his fault." "Ana, give me one reason why I shouldn't march over and tear him apart for being a womanizing abuser." "His first sexual relationship… well, 'relationship' isn't the right word. She was horrible, she treated him like a dog. She'd _hit_ him when he did something she didn't like, and reward him with sex when he followed orders. It was an incredibly toxic relationship, and it went on for six years." "Oh my god." "The worst part is, he thinks she _helped_ him. He still sees her." "Ana… just come home. At least tell me where you are." Taylor's phone goes off, chaos, "Ana!" "… Christian."

Barney traced call to DC, Kate suggests Clara. Ray confronts Christian. "If you make me lose my little girl, I'll kill you." "If I can't make things right, I'll let you." Ana hides in cab during drive-by, go to corner market, calls Clara to come pick her up, "If you ever loved me at all, just do this for me." Get passport as Ana Lambert from when she was 16, still valid, buy ticket, big sunglasses and tan from a bottle. Christian gets on to plane, calls out desperately, spots her in the crowd by lip bite, begs her to stay, she touches his cheek and agrees.

Nuclear fallout when they get back, Grace worked out it was Elena and confronted her. When she comes to appeal to him, Grey cuts her off. Things eventually settle back to how they used to be. Ana and Christian have lunch one day when Hyde does a drive-by with Elizabeth Morgan driving. Ana goes into major commando mode, gets Christian into car, runs down Hyde and breaks his arms in five places. Christian has major moment; proposes she be his Domme. She has all power, undo memories of Elena, learn to trust him again. She decrees that in Red Room, she is Stacy. _Finally,_ the sexiness starts.

Trip in August to Japan, lifestyles of the rich and famous, Ethan meets Mia. Courtship, healing process, but now _Elena_ becomes the big bad. Try not to copy paste slow and steady, but fact she's serial pedophile with fingers in S &M so not beyond belief for extortion and/or a ring.

Possibly pregnant from his birthday, powers on the fritz, he finds out.

Elena arranges hit-and-run on pregnant Ana. Christian takes it in her place. She forges suicide note. She knocks on her door, gets her with Taser. String her from St. Andrew's cross, get her fingerprints on a gun and place right, use identical to get her in side of head, untie right hand. "You tried to kill me. You tried to kill my baby. You almost killed the man I love." Burn everything, she wore/touched, dispose, perfect crime.

Potential tattoos:

Sawyer **Semper fidelis** along her spine.

Barney. **I reject your reality and substitute my own.** Knuckles.

Elena. **I believe the root of all evil is abuse of power.** Inside of thigh.

Patrisse. **You gotta have life your way. If you ain't losing your mind, you ain't partying right.** Calf

Reformed Christian. **Property of Christian Grey**. Ass/tramp stamp.

Potential songs:

King of Anything

The A Team

I Can't Make You Love Me


End file.
